Hindered Retention
by sarumisu
Summary: This story has been cancelled, and will be removed soon. PM me for the new, revised version if you would like it!
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This chapter has been revised - kind of - its quite a mess still but its all important content for the exciting chapters up ahead!**

* * *

_It had been a long time since Leivah was alone. A long time since she had been cold and at nature's mercy in the ruins. So long since she could remember her mother's face._  
_She sat at the wooden table, her hands in her lap as Tairah gathered the aged silverware and spread it out neatly on the table in front of only her. Her eyes wandered around her home, her legs swaying back and forth over the edge of her chair._  
_"Tairah," she asked in a small voice, pulling the elderly man from his own thoughts. He turned towards her and placed a goat roast on the table, watching eagerly for her reaction. Her eyes grew wide and she smiled elatedly- it wasn't often that they could eat more than stale bread. Tairah laughed, her reaction being more than he'd hoped for._  
_"Oh thank you Tairah! Where did you get this?" Leivah eyed the slightly meager meal in front of her, beyond grateful that her carer had gone to so much trouble._  
_He smiles crookedly as he rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "It's probably best if you don't know, dear," he replied simply. Leivah knew better than to pry further, all that mattered was that she wouldn't be hungry when she went to sleep tonight._

_It wasn't long before Leivah could no longer fit even the smallest bit more. Tairah cleared the table and requested Leivah go clean herself up for bed, she obliged and went upstairs. It was draughty in her room, cracks in the walls and floors allowing for cold winds to rip through the creaking old house. She walks to the water basin on the dresser, the water rippling as a slight wind skims the surface, making the hairs on her arms stand on end._  
_She sighs and dips a rag into the bowl, the cold water enveloping her small hands. She wrings out the water and folds the cloth neatly in her palms. The Bosmer child hears the cracking of twigs, a sound so close to being inaudible she doubts she even heard it. The wash cloth trails along her skin, the water running down her forearms and dripping to the floor in a slow but steady rhythm._

**_Drip..Drip..Drip..Drip.._**

_And then a crash. Leivah turns to face the stair way, the sounds below her carrying feelings of familiarity._  
_"Not again." She drops the cloth with a shaking hand and she can hear grunting and the methodical thud of metal against wood. Finally she gathers herself and slowly begins to make small steps towards the stairs leading down to the kitchen. When she is half way down the wooden planks she stops and turns, crouching as her keen eyes glare at the source of the commotion from between the rotting stairs. Her heart pounds so loudly she can barely hear her own frantic thoughts as they whirl in her mind. From her secret vantage point she can see Tairah and an unknown assailant. He is dressed from head to foot in a deep black armor, his hair short and messy as it sticks out from below his hood. His face is mostly covered by cloth._

_"When will you people leave me alone?" Tairah growls as he pushes the other man so hard he falls backward over the table. He lands in a heap on the other side, a dagger still clasped firmly in his hand. His hood is now pulled back and the cloth mask has fallen around his neck and she can see his face now, but only just. An imperial, no older than 15. He grasps his dagger tightly around the hilt, his eyes dangerously focused as Tairah rounds the table, his hands now carrying a knife rather than an impromptu chopping board shield._  
_A laugh escapes the man, his smile doesn't touch his eyes._  
_"The dark brotherhood will not rest, Tairah. Our courteous client is after you and we will not stop," his words are laced with laughter, like a pot of honeyed poison._  
_His grip on his knife is still fierce as Tairah bends in front of him, taking him by the throat. He smiles, revealing a lovely set of fangs. Leivah feels herself flooding with relief when she sees Tairah has the upper hand. Still, the assassin smiles, unnerved by his seemingly imminent death._

_It had been a while since anyone from the Brotherhood had come after us, and she didn't understand why they would send this child who is obviously still an initiate. Does this mean they're giving up on us after all these years? Leivah smiles at the thought of living in peace. But it is short lived._  
_Tairah's back is to her now and she can no longer see the assassins face, but a loud groan and the swaying of her carer tells her something is seriously wrong. He stumbles from his crouched position and the assassin stands, his hood and mask back in place._

_Blood. So much blood. Tiarah is on his knees now, the knife still in his hands. The assassin glares from above him; his eyes cold. Calculating. With genuine mirth he snickers._  
_"Prepare for judgement in the Void, old man."_  
_Tairah is bleeding, his stomach split viciously from one side to the other, his hand holding pressure to the gushing wound while the other, with whatever swiftness he has left, raises and sends the knife deep into the assassins rib cage. Tairah falls, defeated. Leivah descends the stairs, tears running down her face as she approaches her father figure. The assassin is on the floor now, his eyes filling with bitter tears of pain._

_"Why couldn't you just leave us alone?!" Leivah choked back the need to throw up, her eyes blurring._  
_The man pulls the knife from his lower rib cage and curses angrily, blood shimmering on his armor, soaking through the fine leather. He looks up at the child, her golden eyes accusing. He smirks, entertained. This is why he joined the brotherhood. This is what he's made for._  
_"Why?" He leans forward and grabs her arm with a painful grip, twisting her in such a way that she is on her back, his eyes staring down at her as she squirms. "I'm just following orders, kid. I can't help that I happen to love it." He released her after staring for a moment too long, his other hand covering his wounded torso, trying to hold all the blood that he can inside. Without another word he left the house, leaving the Bosmer child to weep in silence._

* * *

It would be an understatement to say I enjoy Skyrim. I enjoy the freezing cold and I enjoy the glistening snow on the rare days when the sun can break through the clouds. But that was all I could enjoy on a sunny day.  
Black robes cover me from head to foot and any person in Skryim could just about tell what I am just by looking at the way I dressed on these rare sunny days. In Cryodiil things were quite the same, only much much more often. All the time, in fact.  
I have been travelling for days. Weeks. Months. Years. Travelling alone can leave one to think too deeply into their own expansive memory and yet I seldom travel with company. I am altogether thankful that most my past is cast in shadows, but that is most likely due to my 'transition'. Becoming undead could leave many things behind that were once dwelling in a living mind.

Hours melded and I knew it was dark enough to shed my cloak. I was grateful to have some air reach my skin after such a warm day. While it wasn't as if sunlight hurt my pallid complexion, it certainly didn't do my energy reserves any favours.  
I was heading to Dragonsreach to report back on my dragon slaying in Dawnstar, per the Jarl's request. It had gone well enough but I had left the townsfolk awfully wary regarding my almost exclusively nocturnal shenanigans. The main road is quiet enough and I can see a familiar farm looming in the distance. My stomach feels like it should be growling, and I know it would be if it hadn't turned to a black oil-like substance over the last 10 years. I laugh bitterly to myself as I dismount from my horse, deciding to stretch my legs. I am sore everywhere. And I really am quite hungry. It's been so long since I last ate anything. Anyone.

I kick a pebble on the path way, my hand holding the reins of my horse as I lead her through the semi-darkness. The moons above us are glowing eerily, casting enough light that one could almost believably claim it was an excessively cloudy day. I murmur to myself about my plans after I return to the Jarl's home, but I'm sure things won't be too uncertain for long. He always seems to have something new for me to do. I am happy to oblige- with the correct amount of gold being slipped my way, that is. As I approach the farm I can see the silhouettes of two people inside through a window. Loreius and his wife Curwe no doubt. I ponder perhaps taking them as my meal tonight but my darkened thoughts are halted after I notice something quite peculiar on the path a fair away ahead of me.  
I can see a stationary coach, obviously not belonging to anyone who calls this farm a home.  
I draw nearer, my ears twitching as I hear the faint cursing of someone walking aimlessly around the coach. My hand goes to my sword, Dragonbane. This sword hasn't been mine for long, but long enough for me to have become quite fond of it. Delphine may be quite annoying in her own right but this sword was definitely worth raiding that musty old temple.

I prick my ears and carefully listen, letting go of my horses reigns. Without much thought I crouch and slowly approach, his words finally clearly reaching me.  
"Gah! Bother and befuddle! Stuck here! _Stuck_! My mother, my poor mother... Unmoving, at rest. But too _still_!" The man is still a fair distance away when he turns toward me, his face hidden in shadow. I stand, knowing I've been spotted. I'm sure my horse was a dead giveaway. I sigh, embarrassed but I keep my hand on my sword's hilt all the same.  
The man puts his hands on his hips and watches as I return to my horse and then walk back towards him again, a sheepish grin across my face. When I expect the man to ask me what in Oblivion I was doing creeping up on him in the darkness, he takes his eyes away from me and continues ranting about being stranded. I stop barely 5 meters away, his expression twisted into the purest form of despair as I watch with a morbid curiosity. He's obviously extremely distressed but I say nothing. He falls silent for a moment then turns back to me, his eyes threatening to cry.

"Is... Is there something wrong?" I ask, fighting an urge to laugh at this ridiculous man.  
His expression flicks immediately from sorrow to something else entirely. Something so intense I find myself almost wanting to reel back away from him. His eyebrows are sharp and well maintained, his eyes keen but almost entirely drowned out by the sickening pity parade he's displaying. High cheekbones and I find myself wondering if I would cut myself slapping that face...  
"Yes! Yes there is! Poor Cicero is stuck!" he finally says, his expression returning to one of defeat. I find myself hoping he didn't notice my sudden inattention as my mind began to wander. "I was transporting my dear sweet mother. Well- not her. Her corpse! She's quite dead. Been dead for a while, actually," he folds his arms and lets slip a wild chuckle that seems completely out of place. I feel like proclaiming how peculiar he is and I am certain I wouldn't be the first- but how hypocritical would that be for someone such as I to call him 'peculiar'? I blink and look behind him towards the cart, now close enough to see a large wooden crate sitting in back. It wasn't a coach at all.  
"Uh.. why are you bothering to move her?" I asked, my eyes still searching, wondering what may actually be inside that giant crate.  
"Because I'm taking my mother to a new home! A new crypt. A new sanctuary! But-" I watch as he turns away from me and gestures frustratedly towards a busted wheel that lay on the ground. "Argh! Wagon wheel! Damnedest wagon wheel! It broke!" I wince at his sharp tone, his fists clenched in his tiny tantrum. There's something very odd happening here and I am curious about where hes going but something tells me I need to keep from laughing at him.

"Okay.. you need it fixed then?" I offer, shifting my weight. I beging to inspect the damage, preparing myelf to fix it on my own. But immediately after my question is said the Jester looks back to me, his expression verging on euphoric. He sure knows how to use his emotions. Or they sure know how to use him...  
"Go to the farm, the Loreius farm, just over there off the road. Talk to Loreius, he has tools, he can help me, but he won't. _He refuses_!" Cicero pouts at me and I almost feel sorry for this apparent mess of a man.  
"He wont't fix your wheel? That sounds pretty rude... Did he mention why? I'm sure this is just a misunderstanding." I force a slight smile, trying with every fiber to hold from doubling over in cruel laughter when his bottom lip begins to quiver.  
"Oh! Oh yes! Convince Loreius to fix my wheel. Do that, and poor Cicero will reward you. With coin! _Gleamy, shiny_ coin!" I roll my eyes as he bounces on the balls of his feet.  
"A _reward_ huh?" I rub my chin and glance towards the farm. Of course the Farmer could fix his wheel. Or I could... or maybe I could just kill this mad jester and be done with things- I'm sure no one would notice his absence...  
I decide against it when I notice how he's watching me.  
His eyes are focused, his hands behind his back as he bends forward slightly, rocking gently with a mischievous grin spread wide across his face. Something intelligent is staring at me now, definitely not the whimpering fool begging me to do him a favour. I meet his gaze and shrug before turning and walking up the hill. Despite my insitance on projecting a calm and sensible personality, something about him has my nerves on edge. But what girl could steer clear of such a unique brand of danger? Certainly not me.

_I am so hungry._

The farmer answers almost immediately after I knock on his door but with words obviously not meant for me.  
"What in Mara's name is it now? I told you to get out of here, jester-!" Loreius blinks and squints into the darkness where I stand in mild shock. "Oh. My apologies. Are you a traveler?"  
I find my voice and speak, "Yes. I'm on my way to see the Jarl in Dragonsreach. I'm his Thane."  
Loreius heaves a hearty laugh and opens the door wider, revealing Curwe his wife who is setting a table. She looks up and smiles at me, her eyes seeming to sparkle in the fireplace's light.  
"C'mon in! I'd heard there was a new Bosmer lass! I'm sorry for greeting you so poorly. I thought you were that damn Cicero fellow again."  
Nervous at his obvious hostility, I walked in and smiled, careful to not show my teeth as Curwe took my coat an hung it over near the door. I took a reluctant place at the table when Curwe gestured to a spare seat. I muttered my thanks and replied when Loreius sat down across from me.  
"Yeah. About that? I'm here to ask why you won't fix his wheel? He would surely pay you." I fold my arms across my chest and shift all my weight to one side, determined to get to the bottom of this problem.  
He rolls his eyes. "You think this is about money? There hasn't been a jester round here in years! The man is clearly insane and I highly doubt he actually has his mother inside that crate," Loreius puffs out his chest and leans back in the chair. Curwe is silent but plainly uncomfortable.

_I am starving._

This man is already grating on my nerves. How could he simply object to such a simple request? Regardless of the jester's strange mannerisms, he still is only asking for one simple favour.  
"Just because you find him to be abnormal is no reason to treat him any differently. He's just a person who needs some help." I can't help myself from pointedly staring at his throat. I can almost hear his pulse beating, pumping blood, moving ligaments, straining sinew, forcing regeneration-  
"But he could be carrying anything in that damnable wagon! Weaponry, Skooma! I don't want to be a part of any of that," Loreius stands, his hands on the table. "I'd like you to leave."  
In one second, out the next. I slowly move to stand, my dakrned eyes watching between the couple while Curwe just seems to want to apologize on behalf of her husband. What a shame she has to go as well.

_I am famished._

"This is your last chance to help him," I say, my hand moving for my dagger. I hope to merely intimidate but Loreius's eyes flash, excited for a challenge. "Don't let your pride be your undoing."  
"I will not help him."  
Defiant to the last moment. I snap, my hunger crashing through me as I let the familiar, blind fury take me over.

I throw a dagger towards Curwe, lobbing it her in the throat. She gasps in an attempt to scream, grasping at the knife in her jugular. She tries to speak but only a weak spluttering escapes her mouth as it overflows generously with blood. Loreius screams, but it is his last. I move across the table and take his face in my hand, unsheathing my sword and moving it easily to his neck. I can feel him shaking beneath me, his eyes closed shut in fear. When I am still I watch his eyes flicker open in disbelief. Alive, unharmed thus far. He looks towards Curwe, her body now lazily convulsing in a messy pool of her own blood. Fingers closing and opening as she reaches from something that isn't there, her eyes fading out as the last thing she will see is my hand pulling back at a sharp angle, splitting her husbands neck wide open. I put my face to the opening, his blood filling my mouth- a violent flood of metallic liquid. My teeth sink in, jaw clamps down. I pull back, a handful of his hair in my gloved fist holding him in place. His flesh in my teeth, his throat wide open. I let go of his head and it snaps back, threatening to fall clean off. I am covered in gore, the shining substance reflecting in the fire's light beneath the cooking pot. I pointlessly wipe my face on the back of my gloved hand as I kick Loreius's now lifeless body away from my boots.

Curwe is gone but Loreius alone is enough to sate me for now. I move towards her and reclaim my dagger, cleaning it off on a small clean spot on her ordinary clothing.  
As I head to the door I take back my coat off the stand and wrap it around me, hoping enough of the blood is off my face. There's a high chance there isn't but I'm too elated to care. The night air assaults my heated skin and I can now see Cicero still standing down by the road, his back to me as he languidly lens against the cart. I pray to the Gods he didn't hear or see anything but that's not likely to be the case. I stop on the porch and turn from the jester who seems very interested by something he's holding in his hands near his chest.  
I reason that it's none of my business and instead head towards the windmill. Loreius is bound to have some tools in here.

After a short scurry around the small room I find a basic tool box and leave again, headed for Cicero. As I draw nearer I can see he holds a small book in his palm and he's scribbling madly away. As he hears me approach he snaps it shut and turns in a single swift motion, an unnaturally wide smile on his face. I'm beginning to think it's his default expression when he's not screeching about wagon wheels.

"Uh.." I rub the back of my neck, the simple action seeming somehow familiar of someone I'm not sure if I actually know.  
The tapping of Cicero's curl tipped shoes bring me back to my senses although he looks anything but impatient.  
"Yes? Anything new from Loreius?" the jester asks, his expression faltering when I fail to answer immediately.  
"Not.. Not really." I sigh but lift my arm to gesture that I had the tools. "But we don't need him anyway. I can fix your cart for you," I force a smile, not knowing how to gauge his flamboyant reactions.  
Cicero seems to glow with pure glee, his eyes closed as he clasps his hands together with a chuckle that rips through the cold night air. Something indefinable encourages me to join him in celebration. He's quite infectious.  
"Thank you, _ooh, thank you_! Cicero is certainly grateful!" His grin is causing my own lips to spread into a thin smile, but I turn and meander towards the busted wheel before I let my fangs be seen by accident. I get to work fixing it, using the tools I took from Loreius while Cicero amuses himself by humming and singing the odd macabre tune here and there while hovering behind me. As much as I appreciate his exuberant demeanor I must admit he's throwing me off my work a tad.

"Cicero thanks you kind stranger! And not just Cicero! Mother thanks you, too!" His words are laced with laughter as I appraise the wheel, no longer busted.  
"This should hold you for long enough," I huff. Now... how am I to get it onto the cart? I could probably manage lifting it on my own but strength that great isn't normal for a fragile looking Bosmeri girl. I look at Cicero, his repetitive thank yous would have driven that uptight Loreius mad. Perhaps I did him a kindness.  
"Uh, mister, could you maybe, help me lift up the carriage slightly so I can get the wheel back on?" I wait for my reply only to be met with laughter. Again.  
"'Mister'? Ohohohh, _stranger_! 'Mister'!" he all but doubles over before waltzing towards me. I suppose a normal person's first instinct is to run when an insane madman approaches them while laughing quite hysterically but instead I stand still and watch in awe as the jester lifts up the carriage enough for me to easily slip the wheel back into place.

I glance up to meet his eyes and find him looking fixedly at me. It is now that I am horribly aware of the crusted blood still caking my face. Probably not the most flattering picture.  
I do my best to ignore that he can clearly see I'm covered from head to toe in blood. "How did you...? How did you lift the cart like that?"  
Cicero is silent, watching. Waiting. For what? I stand up and dust off my clothes, his silence threatening to surpass the annoyance of his humming. His eyes are locked with mine and I feel suddenly intimidated when I notice something indefinable yet foreboding lurking behind the daring glint in his amber eyes. When he still doesn't speak but rather smiles mischievously, I decide our encounter has run its course.

I put out my hand and turn my head, hoping to find something more interesting than his searching eyes.  
"I'll take my payment now," I say ungraciously as the uncomfortable blush begins to keep its way up towards my pointed ears. He was fun at first, a rare sight indeed in these pitiful badlands, but perhaps there's a sound reason why jesters aren't overly accepted anymore. I turn my head back to see Cicero open a satchel on his belt and pull out a coin purse. He smiles as broadly as always as he drops it into my hand before he finally speaks again.

"Here, here! For your troubles, shiny, _clinky_ gold! A few coins for your kind deed, and thank you, thank you again!" The jester waves, spares me one final look over and then turns away from me, leaving me completely astounded.  
I stand in the same spot as he gets up into the drivers seat of the carriage and flicks the reins to move the horse. I watch him go until hes just a speck on the uneven horizon.

"Fucking jesters."


	2. Chapter 2

**AN. Y'ALL KNOW THIS CHAPTER. THE CHAPTER WITH AVENTUS AND WHATNOT. SO ITLL BE A LIL DULL BUT I PROMISE BETTER CONTENT IS ON THE WAAAAAAAAAAAAY**

**still, theres some important details being set up here including a flash back thing *v* so i hope you still enjoy this filler chapter before the real fun begins!**

* * *

I am not sure when exactly it was that I decided to become what I am. 5, 15, 20, 50, 500 years ago? My family say its verging on 15, but they're infinitely older than even I, so how could they keep track of my age when even I can't? Days meld together when all you can do is sleep through the brightest hours. Days merge when all you see is the inky blackness of an underground crypt, surrounded by the whispering sounds of other souless creatures like myself. Still, it'd had been weeks since I've seen my family, but they knew I had to leave. When Dalina told me the first clue about my past life I'd ever heard, I felt like I had no choice but to investigate. My kin were especially secretive regarding my past life, defending their argument by saying I had told them to be, but I knew that with enough pressing, and enough ale, Dalina would crumple and tell me at least something about me that was lost.  
She told me of my 'obsession' with an organisation called 'The Dark Brotherhood'. I figured that was enough to be getting on with. Despite putting Delina in such a bad spot at home, I felt no twinge of guilt. As far as I am concerned, I have every right to know about my past. Even though whatever happened was bad enough to make me become _this_, it can't be worse than wasting away underground for 20 years in the darkness with people who know more about me than I do.

The looming building of the Dragonsreach contrasts against the fiery night sky as I ponder vague memories that could be dreams or perhaps shadows from the lives of people I've stolen.  
Glancing at my hands I can the bracers on the arms covered in dried and cracking blood. I decide now is a good time to clean myself off. I head down to the water just off the pathway and wash my face clean, being sure to wipe away anything obvious that would welcome unwanted questions. Some blood is to be expected what with ruffians and bandits patrolling the main roads and the fact I've just come from Dawnstar with the sole purpose of dragon slaying, but there's a limit and I don't need any added speculation aimed my way.  
So much had happened since I decided it was time to leave my home. So many faces have come swarming towards me since I became the Dragonborn. So much information to absorb.

I rehash things in my mind as I enter through the big gates into Whiterun. The guards mutter their recognition of my title as thane and I nod vacantly in their directions. As much as I like the positive attention, I also hate it. When living in the ruins for so long and only surfacing to feed, you learn that the world perceives you in certain way, and for good reason. But with all these unknowing eyes resting on me I'm not sure what to do. I feel like they're on the brink of discovering what I am, and while I would still be the same person, the Dragonborn, I know it wouldn't be enough to put their qualms to rest. But on the other hand its nice to feel like I am a person and not the godless heathen I've come to know myself as.

I trudge up the stairs towards the Dragonsreach, my legs feeling heavy from riding all day from Dawnstar. I pass a guard who thanked me for serving the Jarl, and another who asked me briefly about my trip up North. I give a simple answer and move on, thankful for each second they remain unaware to my true nature. I put a cold hand to my mouth and pick the blood from under my nails, more a nervous action than preening.

I stop outside the giant double doors and suck in a painfully sharp breath. The Jarl would be the least favourable person to have find out what I am. I push one door open and find myself inside a large room, a fire pit blazing a fair distance away in the center of the area. I walk past it between 2 long tables but I do not find the Jarl at his throne. I blink and look towards the head wizard's room. Empty.  
A guard approaches me and stands at a safe distance, his eyes hidden behind his Whiterun helmet.

"Welcome back to Whiterun," he says plainly. "I am sorry to say the Jarl has retired for the evening, come back in the morning, my Thane." He turns and walks away before I even have a chance to reply.  
What was I thinking coming here this late? I must have been hours ago since I was last at the Loreius farm.  
My mind wanders to earlier this evening and I catch myself grinning slyly. Oh this won't do. Suspicious behaviour inside the Jarl's home at this hour? I wipe my devilish smirk from my lips and move towards the doors again. I notice a guard staring cautiously in my direction and I try my best to ignore him as I round the fire pit and leave through the big doors.  
The cold night air nips at my ears and nose, more brisk than I remember. I lift the collar of my coat around my neck and waddle awkwardly down the stairs towards the town as I try to keep the winds off my face.  
I have considered buying Breezehome but I see no need as of yet, what with my constant comings and goings from town on Dragonborn duties. I finally reach the Bannered Mare and I push open the heavy doors to reveal an almost empty room and a dying fire pit. The sleepy attendant Saadia is slumping against the counter, her head on her arms. I approach quietly, finally releasing the collar of my coat and standing perhaps a little too close to the fire pit as I round it and head for Saadia. As I am about to wake her I hear footsteps coming from a nearby room. I stop and watch patiently, Saadia still sleeping soundly.

I smile politely when I see Hulda round the corner, her eyes sunken slightly. I really should think more considerately about when I choose to be social at night.  
"Leivah? What are you doing out this late?" Hulda yawns and then turns to Saadia who is starting to slide down into a kneeling position behind the counter. Hulda snorts and then turns back to me, waiting for her answer.  
"I just got back from Dawnstar. The Jarl had me slay a dragon there," I answer simply, sliding my coat down off my shoulders and hanging it over my arm. "I was wondering if you had a room spare, Hulda?" My clothes are mostly clean, my outer coat seems to have taken most the blood without seeping through. A miracle really.  
"As a matter of fact, I do have your usual room spare right now," Hulda moves to take my coat but I politely decline with a shake of my head.  
"Fantastic," I smile warmly, taking care to not show my teeth. I feel around on my belt for that jester's coin purse. I drop 10 septims into Hulda's hand and turn to leave for the stair case to my room.  
"Leivah!" Hulda whispers loudly and I turn to face her again.  
"What is it, Hulda?" I raise an eyebrow and wait.  
"Well... I know you're into mercenary work and I heard tale of a boy in Windhelm..." Hulda fumbles with her words, slipping the 10 septims into her apron pocket. I remain silent and she continues, "Ysee, no one really knows this boy's story- save for him bein' an orphan, but rumour has it he's trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood." She forces an uncomfortable chuckle but my expression turns to stone. _The Dark Brotherhood._ My real reason for leaving my underground crypt. When Hulda notices my 'discomfort' she speaks hastily, "A-ah now this is why I told _you,_ Leivah! No one else has the guts to deal with folk like that, someone so desperate they would summon a bunch of godless assassins to hunt their prey for them? Madness!" She smiles nervously and I notice her hushed whispers have finally awoken Saadia who has not moved but rather remains still and watches eagerly. I finally speak, no longer bothering to remain quiet for Saadia's sake.  
"And you think I am the kind of person who dabbles in such things? This doesn't sound at all like mercenary work, Hulda," I reply plainly, refusing to let my piquing interest give me away. I cannot be associated with the Dark Brotherhood. Not even for a second. If anyone looked even slightly in my direction as if there was more to me than meets the eye, my entire identity and operation would be ruined. Nothing will stop me from finding out about the Brotherhood, and certainly not a suspicious Innkeeper.  
"Its mercenary work because you're the bravest one I know! If anyone can deal with something this taboo, its you!" Hulda was probably trying to compliment me but if anything her comment kind of stung. _Taboo_. I roll my eyes and brush her comment off. "I just need you to go find out what's going on over there and put these silly rumours to rest."  
"Fine, Hulda. Can you tell me anything else besides 'random child in Windhelm supposedly performing the black sacrament'?" Hulda seems overly pleased and this also piques my interest. I tilt my head and squint in mock suspicion. Hulda eyes me cautiously, obviously confused. I hold my question for now; she seems to be a little emotionally fragile at present.  
"Not really. But the boy is said to be heard from outside his house, the Aretino household. People are starting to say it's cursed." She speaks carefully, waiting for my curious expression to change from something akin to accusation.

I smirk and ask her finally "Why do you seem so anxious for me to do this little errand? I doubt the Brotherhood would even answer a child... Besides, isn't their presence supposed to be more than benign at present?" After weeks of searching and eavesdropping on darkened corner conversations I had come to find very little trace of Brotherhood reputation. This was the first real lead I've had this whole time and even this is pathetic.  
Hulda huffs and folds her arms. "It's not me who is anxious! Its my patrons, Leivah! They come in here talking about the Dark Brotherhood and a child- a _child_\- orchestrating the black sacrament? It's unsettling, to say the least and it's putting off most my customers. I'll be more than happy when this foolish nonsense is dealt with!" To my great surprise her reasoning is quite solid and I wipe the mirth from my expression.  
"I'm just joking around, Hulda, I will see what I can do for you about this Aretino boy," I laugh airily and bid both of them goodnight, Saadia seeming quite pleased to see Hulda out of sorts.

I head upstairs to my room and drop down onto the bed, the smell of mothballs and candle wax wafting in the room. I watch the ceiling and turn over my new plans in my head. Finally a lead on the Brotherhood, after all these weeks I could finally find what I've been searching Skyrim for.

* * *

_"You've done_ what_?!" The voice echoes off the walls as the assassin shouts in disgust. A lowly assassin, bleeding from his torso kneels at the elderly man's feet, gripping his wound with curling fingers. Short red hair sticks out from under his shrouded hood, his eyes the colour of amber.  
"I let the child go, brother," the older man snarls and kicks him in the stomach, knocking him onto his side. He yelps in pain but makes no move to defend himself and instead lay spluttering on the stone floor of the Bruma Sanctuary.  
"Cicero, you were told to leave no survivors! That child could ruin the sanctity of the Brotherhood!" Cicero winces at the pain, his face pale from blood loss.  
__"I apologise! I swear to you, Assimo- to everyone that I will rectify my mistake! Just please give me another chance!" Between coughs he manages to get himself back to his knees, tears running down his face.  
There's a cold blackness in the eyes of Assimo, the leader of the Bruma Sanctuary. He watches, obviously enjoying the sight of a lowly initiate grovelling hopelessly at his mercy. Cicero makes no eye contact and instead keeps his head bowed. Trained like a dog. Onlooking brethren watch in silence, disturbed but knowing better than to defend the boy.  
Eventually, when Cicero's shaking form became still, too weak to even quake in fear, Assimo spoke.  
"You will have another chance. You will have as many chances as it takes until you mutilate that Bosmeri child and bring me her head. Cicero, this is your new task," his words are final and confusing, Cicero's traumatized body failing to comprehend his new orders. All goes black and the boy is unconscious._

_Cicero awakens in the woods, his wound gone, leaving only a faint scar over his ribs. Healing spells and a few clever potions truly are a gift.  
The world comes flooding back and he is aware of every sound, every twitch in the grass, each individual trill of the 10000 bats flying overhead. It's dusk and the trees are shaded heavily against the violently orange sky. He stands, dizzy and painfully aware now of his new task; end the Bosmeri child.  
An ebony dagger rests on his hip and a sly grin passes over his features.  
"Just another target," he whispers as his finger traces the hilt of his dagger. He heads North searching for the town where he last saw her, hoping to gain a clue. Surely she wasn't so stupid as to stay this long and mourn her pitiful carer. Savage vampire bastard. Cicero curses loudly, a palm now pressed to his new scar._

* * *

I awaken to the sound of a talent-less bard below me in the main room. I groan weakly and sit up, throwing my legs out over the side of the bed. Time to get moving.  
I dress quickly in heavy clothing, thankful that the weather seems to have cooled and clouded over since yesterday. I grab my few possessions and tie them to my person in one way or another before leaving the Bannered Mare. Hulda gave me a knowing glance as I passed the fire pit, now a sad pile of smoking ash. I walk up the stairs to Dragonsreach again, my face now entirely hidden from view. As I approach the doors I step thankfully into the shade cast by the grand building which allows me to remove the cloth from my face. A guard stares curiously at me, obviously wondering what the Thane could be doing wearing all this clothing during the day. I smile slightly and pull my clothes in tighter around me.  
"I'm from Cryodiil. It's so much colder here, I'm not really used to it yet," I say with a pained smile and gesture how cold I am by faking a shiver. The guard laughs awkwardly and opens the door for me into the Dragonsreach. As always (during the day at least) I find the Jarl reclined on his throne, a cup of mead in his hand as he talks languidly to his steward, Proventus Avenicci. They turn to face me and I bow to the Jarl, my hood now drawn back entirely. The Jarl smiles and sits up properly to greet me.  
"Ah, my Thane! Welcome home to Whiterun! I trust your mission in Dawnstar went well?" His eager demeanor surprises me and I try to match it respectfully.  
"Yes Jarl Balgruuf! Everything went as planned and now that dragon lay defeated," I realise now I have no actual proof but I am sure word will reach him eventually.  
"Ah good good! Now I've been discussing your next mission with Farengar and he says you have a dragon that's terrorizing a farm down near Riften. When do you think you would be able to get down there and take care of that for us?" The Jarl waits for my reply, his assumption that I am even willing is slightly annoying, doubled by the fact he hasn't told me why its even his duty to direct me on when and where to go.  
"I can leave today, actually," I say simply, just wanting to leave now that he's ticked me off.  
The Jarl stares for a moment before laughing briefly.  
"Pleasantly eager!" he says heartily. This whole conversation seems incredibly off somehow, the Jarl is usually a very mellow individual. "Alright then, you can leave whenever you see fit, Dragonborn. Take care on your travels and if you need anything do not hesitate to ask me," I nod and he sort of waves me off and turns back to Proventus who was oddly quiet throughout the conversation; that awkward little man always has something entirely obnoxious to say.  
I wait a moment longer expectantly awaiting my payment but nothing comes. As I predicted. Give me a title, the opportunity to buy a crummy house near the front gates of Winterun and expect me to continuously kiss your ass while I go unpaid, Jarl? After this mission I will certainly have some choice words for this 'regional king'.  
I turn and leave, still grateful things were brief and he is sending me in the same direction as Hulda's Brotherhood lead.

So far in my travels through Skyrim I have not wandered far East of Whiterun so I decide to tie my horse to a cart and ask the driver to lead us to Windhelm first so I don't get myself lost in these snowy mountains.

The travelers cart rocks to a stop and the driver turns to me and announces our arrival at Windhelm. The place is as dreary as I expected, perhaps even more so. I am shivering violently, my thick cloak still not enough to shield me from the freezing cold that seems to rip right through my body. The driver is almost blue, sitting up higher than me and taking on the brunt of the gale. I thank him and lead my horse over to the stables; poor thing must be exhausted. Once she's settled in I take a moment to stretch my legs. Even without walking, spending 12 hours on a dusty old wagon in the snow will take it out of you. My hood is pulled back, night time once again fallen across Skyrim. I see the cart driver walk into the stables and I consider robbing him; a girl really does need her gold in a country like this. I stand for a moment and decide he probably needs it more than I do. Such a modest price to take me all the way here from Whiterun.  
Before long I am at the gates into Windhelm, the miserable weather throwing sheet after sheet of dismal grey ice. I pull my coat in close and decide perhaps keeping my hood on would prove a smarter decision. I notice two guards shivering with their backs pressed firmly against either side of the gates, trying as best they can to get out of the wind. I walk through, neither of them paying me any attention. For people I assume to be locals, they certainly don't deal well with a bit of cold, huh? I snigger under my breath as the doors close behind me.  
I am greeted by a sad looking city enclosed inside massive black stone walls. In front of me I can see an Inn, raucous patrons are visible through the dimly light windows. I consider walking inside but I don't feel up to socializing with drunkards despite how badly I need to find out anything I can on the Aretino child. Instead I decide to wander around for a couple hours, getting to know the city, eavesdropping on huddled groups of people. I learn a few things, but nothing is heard of the Aretino boy.

As I am heading back towards the Inn, several hours of aimless wandering later, I am stopped suddenly when I notice a young woman walking alone a short distance from me. I stick to the shadows along the thin walkpath, my stomach suddenly aching. I stifle a groan of annoyance at my own weakness and move silently behind her. I can feel my pulse in my mouth, my ears flushed against the cold air. My skin is starting to sweat, my hands clenching and unclenching, my teeth grinding together in eager anticipation. I _need_ this. I need _her_. Right now. I step out behind her as she rounds the corner into a cemetery, allowing for my feet to stir the snow at an audible level. The woman turns, her expression twisting in fear as she recognizes the no-doubt viscous expression I must be wearing. I smirk, revealing my pointed fangs, my eyes narrowed and my head titled back. I can smell her. Her ivory skin, I can see each and every single snow flake fall gracefully against her face and melt into the pours. Her eyes grow wide in fear and she turns to run. In a single motion I have her in a steadfast grip. I pull her back by the arm and the force knocks her off balance, causing her to fall backwards into my arms. Her eyes are closed and her body is quaking as I hold her fragile life in my hands. She opens her eyes and stares into my red irises- bewilderment, ambivalence. I smile wider, more cruel when I notice the tears beginning to well in her eyes. I know I am a monster. I know what I am. I chose this life, I chose to feel this way about killing an innocent life- and this feeling of pure elation, the racing of the ghost that was once my pulse is the reminder of why I am here in Windhelm. The young woman's expression is telling me she wants to scream but the twitching muscles in her throat tell me she has forgotten how.  
"Hush, dear one, _hush_. This won't hurt much, I _promise_," with a voice so sickly sweet I lower my head to her neck. I can smell her blood beneath the skin, I can see her knuckles turn white as she grasps with every ounce of remaining strength to my arm. I can't feel a thing. I can't feel her fingernails ripping my skin, I can't feel the flood of my oil-esque blood breaching the confinements of my body through shredded slits.  
I press my mouth to her jaw and breathe deeply, my motion almost romantic. I plant chaste kisses along her jawline and down her throat, the woman now both scared and obviously confused. I pull back for a moment and consider letting her go just to see how it would turn out, but the thunderous growling inside my core forbids it. I press my lips to soft skin one last time before opening my mouth. I graze my teeth along her jugular just hard enough to leave a shallow cut along her windpipe. She shudders, repulsed. I fight the urge to laugh bitterly and instead bring my teeth down, clamping around her neck. I bite harshly, deeply -completely severing her windpipe. She attempts to scream but no sound escapes her save for the spluttering of blood profusely pumping from the hole in her throat. I drink deeply, holding her convulsing form wide from my person to prevent unnecessary blood spill. My face and shirt collar are a completely different story. My white hair is tangled over my face and drenched in blood, the woman now completely limp. I pull but from her neck which is barely holding her head aloft. If it weren't for her spine she would have completely lost it by now. In retrospect I may have lied when I promised her it wouldn't hurt much.

I know I have to feed each day to remain incognito but leaving this trail of death in my wake is sure to attract attention eventually but for now I have to think on how to dispose of _this_ young woman.  
After a moment of debate I decide to rip her apart. I cannot leave a trace of this being a vampires work. I strip down to my smalls, the cold wind threatening to freeze me where I stand. I place my clothes nearby but out of the way and drag her body over to a nearby stone coffin. How fitting she should die in a cemetery. I laugh for the sake of laughter, for sound, for something to ground me before getting down to business.  
With Dragonbane I slash the young lady until she is entirely unrecognizable and leave her sprawled across the top of the coffin. Nothing here would suggest that I- nor my kin- orchestrated this horrendous scene.

By the time I am finished I can feel the beginning of frost bite threatening to take my fingers. I redress and walk quickly away from my crime. I find a stray pan at the market place and fill it with snow and place it over a fire place, the streets completely abandoned at this time of night. Once the snow is melted I use it to clean myself up a bit. It simply won't do, showing up covered in blood at the Inn on the night of a murder. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't a slightly bit interested to see the city's reaction upon the morrow but for now I need to get some rest. Tomorrow I _will_ find that Aretino child.


	3. Chapter 3

**i realise vampires cant go outside at all during the day but yknow i thought that was silly. if theyre wearing a hood they should totally be allowed outside during the day cmonnnn**

* * *

_Cicero stands silent on the edge of the trees, his dagger drawn and twisting idly in his hands. The town is just beyond a small clearing, a town where he'd heard the Bosmer child had run to. Weeks had gone by without a single sign of her, he'd traveled far and wide across all of Cryodiil but he'd finally cornered her. He emerges from the thicket and darts across the clearance, the cover of night granting him the cloak of darkness. Inside a house he can see the Bosmer child sitting alone at a vacant table, her hand holding a dagger. Her expression is cold, tired. _  
_"Easy pickings," he whispers, but foolishly so. The girl looks up, her heightened sense of hearing giving him away. She stands and walks to his window slowly, brandishing her knife. The girl has no intention of fighting tonight but she had been training across Cryodiil on how to defend herself. Over time she had become quite handy with her trusty dagger. She opens the window and finds the man crouching below it, looking up at her, his face hidden but his eyes are wide._

_"Why didn't you run?" he hisses through the face cloth, his brow furrowing in confusion. He excelled in his area for sneaking and stabbing but he just won't be able to get this damn contract done if she's able to hear the impossible._  
_"I don't want to fight you," the girl says quietly before stepping away from the window. She walks slowly, backwards away from the man who stands up and jumps silently through the window. He stands there and doesn't make any movements but instead watches as the girl extinguishes all the lanterns and throws a bucket of water into the fire place. The harsh sizzling of water on dying coals is the only sound heard as Leivah takes her seat at the table again, her keen eyes refocusing quickly in the new lighting. "I want to talk to you."_  
_"Talk to me?" Cicero's jaw drops and he raises his knife to scratch idly at his head through the hood. "You do realize who I am? Why I must be here?" _  
_"Yes of course. I've learnt a great deal about your people since... _then_," she can see him silhouetted against the window by the dull light the moons are casting outside._  
_"Then why? Why must you talk to me?" Cicero takes a cautious step closer, a vague plan forming in his head. Perhaps he can lull her into a sense of false security. Perhaps._  
_"I have questions. Firstly, I need to know why you specifically joined such a horrible organisation," she replies simply, her questions evidently rehearsed time and time again._

_Cicero is quiet for a moment and takes another step forward towards the table. Why did he join the Brotherhood? That was easy._  
_"I enjoy killing," he replies, fiddling with his ebony dagger._  
_"So do I," the Bosmeri girl grins but it fades quickly. She is not proud of the rush she gets for turning violent against people who were aiding a 'helpless child' over the past few weeks, but there was no denying the rush of blood in her head, the itching of her fingers before reaching for her dagger. There was no denying the pleasure._  
_With no one left to protect her, what else was a 10 year old girl to do in these times?_

_Cicero grins and contemplates perhaps recruiting her. He quickly decides against it knowing Assimo would never allow for a contract to be broken, even if it meant fresh meat in the ranks.  
"What's an innocent girl like you killing people for?" Cicero moves close enough to the table that he pulls one of the chairs towards him and he sits backwards on it, his dagger scratching little patterns onto the back of it.  
"My innocence was lost long before you met me... Now, my second question. Why would the Brotherhood send you, an initiate, after Tairah, a known vampire clan leader?" her voice is even, mellow. Cicero squints in the darkness to read her expression for any kind of trickery.  
"How do you know I'm an initiate?" he rubs his chin idly in confusion.  
"Answer my question."  
"Do not forget yourself,_ girl_. I am in charge here. Answer _my_ question," he stabs his knife into the back of the chair and lets it protrude awkwardly outward towards Leivah who does not flinch.  
"I have a name, you know," she replies vacantly. "Its Leivah. Leivah Reed. And I know your rank simply through observation. Many a Brotherhood member had been after us for years, I've come to know most rank's uniforms by now. Besides that, your age gives you away. Assumption of course but still, you look no older than 15."  
"I am indeed no older than 15," Cicero leans back, his fingers gripping the edge of the back of the seat. Mildly impressed by her obvious intelligence and generally tranquil demeanor. He decides to grant her an answer. "I was elected most suitable for killing Tairah. Through many trials and errors we had come to learn he was a fierce fighter and front on attacks were no way to go, so they sent me. I may be an initiate but I am the best there is," there is an element of pride in his tone, the sound of a smile in his words.  
"Then I needn't worry about any of you," Leivah says simply, folding her arms across her chest as she leans back in her chair. Cicero tilts his head and scoffs in distaste.  
"'Needn't worry'? My dear child you ought to be _very_ worried indeed." There is a twinge of anger seeping into his calculated words now, and Leivah does not fail to notice.  
"Well, I've thought about it and no. I needn't worry if the best the Brotherhood can throw at me is a sneaky assassin initiate who let a small child go and failed a simple contract in doing so," she smiles contentedly but tenses herself for retribution, however she is met only by laughter.  
"Hahahah! You think you stand a second chance against someone like me?" Cicero stands up and pulls his dagger from the chair. He puts his hands on the table and leans across it. "Everything I have is on the line until you're dead."  
"I'm sad to say I'm going to have to disappoint you and your persistent superiors this evening. But before we get down to it," she stands as well and she can feel his eyes burning through her face as malicious intent radiates off him in waves. "I have one final question to ask you today, assassin."  
__Cicero leans back off the table and gets himself ready for whatever this small girl has planned, not that he expects it to be much.  
When he says nothing she asks, "What am I to name my newest foe?"  
A child alone cannot do much harm, but a dead one can do none at all. With a smile, one last word passes the assassin's lips. "_Cicero_."_

* * *

The sun is clouded heavily, so much so in fact that if it weren't snowing to the point I couldn't see 5 inches in front of me I wouldn't need to wear my hood at all.  
An average day in Windhelm I was told by the lovely Innkeeper here, but this is not the only thing she told me. She also revealed to me the location of the Aretino household and informed me that there was indeed a boy squatting there named Aventus who is undoubtedly attempting to summon the Brotherhood.  
I trek through the white mist of unrelenting snow and head down a black stone path behind the Inn. I find a strange looking structure that looks like an archway, either side supported by a small tower. One of these towers has a door on it, but I notice a young boy and a woman standing near there, talking in hushed voices.

The boy speaks, "...Then it's true, what everyone is saying? That Aventus Aretino is doing the Black Sacrament? Trying to summon the Dark Brotherhood?" his voice holds no trace of fear but rather excitement.  
The woman laughs nervously, failing to hide her discomfort. "Oh Grimvar, always with the nonsense... No, no of course not. Those are just tales!" She sounds as if she's trying to convince herself rather than the child.  
"Fine! Then I'll invite him out to play! He lives right there. I'm going to knock on his door..." Grimvar smirks and turns over-dramatically towards the door. I can tell he has no real intentions to act on his passive threat but the woman isn't taking the chance.  
"No, child! Wait! That boy, that house-... They're cursed!" The women grabs the boy and pulls him closer to her, her facade of nonchalance entirely disintegrated.  
"Ha! Then I'm right! I knew it. He's trying to have somebody killed!" The boy sounds almost joyed at the prospect. I grimace in disgust. What is wrong with this child? What is wrong with Aventus? What is wrong with children in general? All so aggressive. If there's one thing I've noticed since my arrival in Skyrim it's that the children here seem a little dark... A little too knowledgeable about the ways of the world while also remaining entirely ignorant to the most basic of things.  
"All right. I won't deny it, child. What you have heard is true, but Aventus walks a dark path. His actions can only lead to ruin... Now enough, we will speak no more of this. I am the only friend you need," she smiles weakly and ushers the boy away from near the door and down the path I had just come. They seem to not notice my presence at all.

I approach the house, my stomach jumping in anticipation. Finally something solid, something real. An actual lead to take me somewhere closer to my goal. I can hear the boy from inside his house and I eagerly pick the lock. I enter, the is house dark and the potent smell of rot greets my senses. I move silently, taking in the mess strewn throughout the household. In a side room I finally find Aventus, stabbing at the floor as he drones a vaguely familiar chant.  
"... Sweet Mother, sweet Mother, send your child unto me, for the sins of the unworthy must be bathed in blood and fear..." over and over, his voice weak and his body visibly weaker. I crouch and move closer, the desecrated remains of a human body lay decaying, deathbell and other flowers placed carefully woven among countless melted candles. "So tired... _so tired_..." he stops stabbing the floor and is still for a moment before starting the chant again. It has been a long time since I saw something so desperately pathetic. Finally, I clear my throat, tired of this sad picture.

The boy turns his head, a loud gasp escaping him. His eyes are sunken, blisters on his hands from stabbing the ground in frustration. His voice is cracking, obviously dehydrated. If I didn't loathe children I am sure I would pity him. Before I even have a chance to speak he stands and clasps his hands together.  
"It worked! I knew you'd come, I just _knew_ it! I did the Black Sacrament, over and over. With the body and the... the _things_. And then you came! An assassin from the Dark Brotherhood."  
I am speechless. I do not know what to say. I came here to ask him questions, not be labeled as a member of the Brotherhood.  
"You don't have to say anything. There's no need. You're here, so I know you'll accept my contract," his expression is earnest and he is stepping closer to me, his eyes hopeful. I don't know what to do, things are spinning incredibly fast. I do not want to take up a random contract on behalf of the Brotherhood.  
Although... It would be a decent way to learn about their line of work... Are there penalties for stealing a contract? I doubt it even matters, the Brotherhood barely exists if at all anymore.  
I watch Aventus who continues to speak, his eyes now looking at the floor. "My mother, she... she died. I... I'm all alone now. So they sent me to that terrible orphanage in Riften. Honorhall. The headmistress is an evil, cruel woman. They call her Grelod the _Kind_. But she's not kind. She's terrible. To _all_ of us!" He takes a breath, his fists are clenched and I notice he's shaking. I haven't said a single word and this child is spilling his guts all over me. He breathes deeply and continues again. "So I ran away, and came home. And performed the Black Sacrament. Now you're here! And you can kill Grelod the Kind!"  
I realise now there's no point in arguing. I might as well suss things out in Honorhall seeing as I'm heading in that direction anyway for Balgruuf. If things are indeed as bad as he says I will have no problem taking care of this contract, but firstly I need him to answer a question.

"And my payment, child? Assassinations don't come cheap," I try to sound as official as possible, although I am sure the effort is wasted on this delirious child.  
"I have a family heirloom you can have. Supposed to be sort of valuable. I hope that's all right," he looks up at me again, happy that I am on the same page as he.  
With that I take my leave and head for Riften, happy to have a non-Dragonborn related goal to complete.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Riften is a peculiar town. It doesn't snow here for which I am grateful and still the weather remains quite overcast all year round, allowing me to walk free of my hood. Upon entry I was greeting by a gruff man warning me to leave a particular family alone. Like I came here to bother anyone besides the local dragon and Honorhall Headmistress. I walk around the town for a while and find most people seem to be gathered in the center where a quaint market is set up. I can see a tall building akin to a castle type structure and I move towards it through the rabble. I cross a bridge and notice Honorhall is to my right. Found it easily enough but I should definitely wait until night fall. I continue towards the large stone building and enter inside, figuring it'd be better to deal with the Jarl _before_ I kill the Orphanage owner and perhaps draw attention to myself. I am greeted by guards who ask me my business repeatedly. I grow tired quickly but answer as politely as I can. Eventually I reach the main hall where the Jarl is seated upon her throne. I stand before her and bow humbly, waiting for the room to fall silent. A guard rushes to her side and whispers something in her ear.  
"Ah, the Thane of Whiterun! Welcome to Riften. I hope your journey was a pleasant one." Her eyes watch me, as if she's searching for something to validate my claim to title of Thane.  
I ignore her pleasantries, hoping I don't seem rude. "I heard you have a dragon problem, Jarl Laila?" I dive straight in, hoping confidence and an official attitude will be identification enough.  
"Oh eager I see. Yes. _Yes,_ we do have a dragon problem. Out near a local honey farm, the Goldenglow Estate. A dragon is patrolling the skies- it's making business difficult for everyone around here." Her reply is about as enough information I need. "I will send a small troupe of guards to accompany you."  
She calls to 'Gonnar', who I assume is in charge of security and when he emrges from the war room he looks me up and down.  
The Jarl introduces me as Thane of Whiterun and of course, the legendary Dragonborn.  
"_You're_ the Dragonborn?" I can hear something similar to spite in his voice as he comes to stand on the adjacent side of the Jarl's throne from me. I cannot say how tired I am of being underestimated because I am a female Wood Elf, not a Male Nord as their ridiculous fairy tales would be so inclined to describe.  
I scoff and reply bitterly, "What? You expected Ulfric Stormcloak?" He sneers at me and leaves, surely to round up his men. The Jarl is smiling slightly, but wipes her expression when she realizes I am watching.  
"Go wait for my commander outside the Western Gate, Dragonborn."

I meet Gonnar outside and we do not speak for some time. He has been joined by 5 other men and women, all with their weapons drawn.

When we arrive at the Goldenglow Estate all seems well for now but I know something is definitely up when I can't see even one person working on the estate. We wait in silence, stubbornly refusing to even notice each other's existence.  
"It should be here," Gonnar mumbles to himself, his eyes watching carefully through the canopy of the surrounding trees. As he is finished speaking, I hear it. A roar so terrible it shakes the water around us, ripples lapping against the shore. I draw Dragonbane, excited for some action. The surrounding men and women begin to tremble and I fight the urge to snigger at them. This is the mightiest crew the Mistveil Keep could throw my way?  
The thunderous sound of mighty wings tearing through the air becomes almost deafening as the huge beast circles the estate. The agitated water turns into an angry mess of waves as the dragon hovers directly above us. Three guards release arrows into the chest of the dragon and it screams out a second time, but this time words can be heard inside the giant flames that threaten to burn us alive. The heat is bewildering and I manage to escape; the same cannot be said for one of our archers. Gonnar swears loudly as he brandishes his battleaxe.  
More flame and arrow fodder fly backwards and forwards until the dragon can no longer fly with its tattered and torn wings. With a cry, Gonnar is lunging at it from the side, hacking with all he can as the beast groans wearily. A fairly weak opponent when compared to some of my previous jobs as Dragonborn. Without another moment of hesitation I too run towards the dragon, its legs failing as it fights to bite out at us with its last bit of strength. I admit I have not been entirely useful in this battle, but I will claim the final hit for myself and take this dragon's soul.  
The dragon moves to bite me but I ram Dragonbane right through the top of its skull, splattering me in even more blood. Wonderful. I use my foot to hold the dragons head still while I draw out my sword.  
Gonnar stares at me and he covered from head to toe in blood; it would seem I got off lightly. He glaces over towards the smoldering ashes of his deceased guardsman and I give a somber expression as means of apology. He nods, seeming to be happy with my efforts, as little as they were. It would appear I have won his approval, not that I particularly care for it.  
I step away from the dragon and wipe my face off on the sleeve of my cloak. I am suddenly exhausted while I watch with obvious disdain for the situation as the dragon's body begins to catch fire and disintegrate. The body turns to bone and I absorb the soul, the spirit of a raging dragon penetrating my very core. I can feel his anger coursing in my veins, I can hear him screaming out in protest, blind and total refusal. He mightn't have been a big fighter in life but his soul is apparently going to need extensive taming.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Several hours pass and I watch in silence as the people come and go from the town center. I notice several of the shop keepers are quite tetchy and that people keep talking in groups about something called 'The Thieves Guild'. People watching was always something I enjoyed dabbling in, that is, before I picked one or two off in the cover of darkness for my own twisted desires.  
I can feel traces of dragons blood dried in my hair and I can't help but groan. I am so tired and done with today, however the heavy coin purse now hanging from my belt next to Cicero's is quite pleasing. At least_ this_ Jarl pays me for a job well done.  
When it's finally quiet in the town center and the last few stragglers waddle into the local Inn I make my move. I enter through the front doors of the Orphanage when I am certain no guards can see me. Inside, I find a table with a few pieces of food on it and a young woman who is seated with her back to me, biting her nails. From a room to my left I can hear an old woman talking harshly- I move forward towards the sounds but the woman finally notices me.  
"E-excuse me! You have to leave, the orphanage is closed!" She stands to face me. I notice she's rather attractive but the worry lines on her face tell me she's not had an equally attractive life.  
"I'm afraid I can't do that right now and I suggest you back off, miss. I am not in the mood to play cat and mouse with you," I put a hand to Dragonbane- which is still covered with blood- and watch her closely. Her reaction is as hoped; she sits down on the bench again, this time facing me. She doesn't speak- almost as if she understands why I am here.  
"You're from the Dark Brotherhood aren't you?" she whispers, her hand returning to her mouth as she stares at my feet. "Aventus finally did it."  
I do not speak but instead move past her to the door way where I can still hear the older woman speaking. When I round the corner I am greeted by several small children gathered around an old woman dressed in grey clothing. Her hair is mattered and her voice grinds on my brain. I grimace at the grating voice and try to concentrate instead on the words she speaks rather than the obnoxious tone.  
"..."Those who shirk their duties will get an extra beating. Do I make myself clear?" She stands with her arms folded, her face in a permanent scowl. Almost immediately I know this woman will die tonight by my hand.  
The children answer in unison, "Yes, Grelod."  
"And one more thing! I will hear no more talk of adoptions! None of you riff-raff is getting adopted._ Ever_! Nobody needs you, nobody wants you. That, my _darlings_, is why you're here. Why you will _always_ be here, until the day you come of age and get thrown into that wide, horrible world. Now, what do you all say?" she waits expectantly and I feel physical repulsion. What a horrid individual.  
The kids are looking anywhere but Grelod, a particularly young girl crosses her fingers behind her back. "We love you, Grelod. Thank you for your kindness."  
Grelod nods, apparently appeased. "That's better. Now scurry off, my little guttersnipes."

I take this chance to walk in as she grabs a broom into her hands and begins idly sweeping the floor. The children hurry about the room, completely oblivious to my presence. I tap Grelod on the shoulder when I finally am within reach. She turns quickly, expecting one of the children. Shocked to find a stranger in her home, she remains silent until I speak.  
"Aventus Aretino says 'hello', Grelod." Her eyes grow wide and I can see the anger at the mention of his name.  
"Aretino? Why that little _bastard_! You tell him I'm coming for him! And when I find him, it _will_ be the beating of his miserable life!"  
That's it. I cannot stand her voice- her cruel words- any longer. I draw my sword in a single motion and plunge it into her stomach. She drops the broom and instead grabs my shoulders for support. Her expression is furious, her claw-like fingers digging painfully into my clothes. I twist the hilt and she yelps, blood pulsing from the wound and spilling onto the floor. She slides down to her knees before falling ungracefully to the floor with a soft 'thud' in a pool of her own blood. I contemplate feeding but that wouldn't be a very smart thing to do with all these tiny witnesses.  
As soon as my sword is again in my sheath I am surrounded by children. A few of them hug my legs while others just cry and chant their thank yous again and again. I am bombarded by small hands and words of thanks, and I cannot help but notice how all of them are bruised and scarred badly all over their tiny bodies. I feel a vague sense of accomplishment knowing these young people are now free from such a sordid woman. The young lady in the other room is watching me from the door way into the dining room. Her face is twisted in horror, trembling hands and a ghostly complexion, but she stands still and does not make for the door.  
I manage to pry the children off of me and I walk away while the little ones begin to celebrate. The young woman watches me and gives me ample room to walk past her as I head for the front doors. I imagine she would also be feeling some relief, even if its not immediate. Death is so much more to those who have lived long enough to see what it can do; what it means. Those children have no grasp on the concept as of yet.  
I peer through the double doors; not a soul in sight. I slip out and make my way to the nearest exit, sticking closely to the shadows.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Once again I am greeted to Windhelm with wind. And snow. The name is fitting I suppose. I make my way to the Aretino household, still exhausted having had no time to rest since leaving Riften. If I keep this up I am going to collapse pretty soon.  
I enter the boys home and find him sitting in the center of his room, the remnants of the Black Sacrament still rotting away in the side area. Disgusting. I can barely bring myself to breathe in the fetid air without gagging.  
He jumps to his feet when he sees me and asks, almost pleadingly, if Grelod is dead.  
"It is done, Aventus."  
He smiles brightly, his face still sunken from lack of nourishment. "Here, here! Take this! It's my family's heirloom but I won't be needing it anymore!" He presses a plate towards me and I take it without a word. By the looks of it, its barely worth much. I tuck it away and watch the child rub his face with his hands in disbelief. Eventually the information sinks in and he looks up at me.  
"When I grow up, I'm going to be an assassin. That way I can help lots of children, just like you." he turns away from me and begins hastily shoving things into a knapsack.  
"What will you do now?" I ask, barely caring about whatever response he gives. This whole shebang didn't give me much information at all about the Brotherhood and I am not sure how to feel. Surprised? Relieved? Saddened? Mostly I am just disappointed. Disappointed about my quest turning up with nothing but a bunch of happy orphans. Useless.  
He waits a moment, halting his packing. "I'll go back to the Orphanage in a while... I'll give them time to, you know... clean up the mess..." he smiles crookedly and I stare back slightly sickened. The joy these children derived from such an abhorrent ordeal is ridiculous. Sure she was truly debauched but do they not understand at all the meaning of what has happened here? I doubt it.  
I bid him farewell and quickly leave his house, the smell beginning to make me feel light headed.  
I make my way back towards the Candlehearth Hall Inn, my head throbbing with exhaustion. I pay for my room and am aware only vaguely of fearful whispering around the Hall's main room. I take note only that it is not about me before I crash on my bed and drift almost immediately to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

**im kind of proud of this chapter. maybe i should write while heavily sleep deprived more often! enjoy! the fun is going to begin soon!**

* * *

Morning arrives much too quickly and my body still feels completely drained. I pull myself from the bed and sit up, rubbing my face in an attempt to rouse my senses.  
Outside my room in the main hall I can hear a frenzy of footsteps and hushed voices. I stand and gather my belongings, considering the idea of purchasing a knapsack to hold all this miscellaneous junk I am beginning to accumulate. I leave the room and find many people bustling about, worry stricken across all their faces. Usually this was a place of lighthearted tomfoolery, but the ambiance here was entirely unsettled today. I approach the Inn keeper Elda and ask her what's going on.  
"There's been a murder in the town square 2 days ago," she says, her expression is solemn as her eyes wander over the crowds of people.  
My stomach sinks. I did that.  
"Oh... who was it?" I try my best to look scared, concerned. I am both those things but for entirely obtuse reasons.  
"Friga Shatter-Shield. They say she was completely torn to shreds by something," her tone is flat, her eyes now staring vacantly at nothing in particular.  
"Any clue who did it?" trying to seem halfway casual, I lean against the counter and wait for her response, my brow furrowed as I wait impatiently for her answer.  
"No. No one has any idea what's happened, not much was left... _afterwards_... They're calling him 'The Butcher'," she drifts off. I can tell she must have known the woman fairly well by the haunted look in her eyes but I decide to pry further. Perhaps not the smartest thing to do in my position, having committed the murder and all but my curiosity gets the better of me.  
"Was she popular around here?" I question, gauging her reactions carefully; it's important that I keep from hitting a nerve.  
"Everyone loved Friga, I just cannot-... I cannot understand why anyone would do something so _vicious_..." She hangs her head and I take this as my queue to leave. I give my apologies and leave, thankful that I remain undetected. However I am beginning to realise it's been a while since I last fed... what to do, what to do? I'ts hard to feed without people noticing when everyone knows everyone.  
I figure its best if I just leave for Whiterun and tell the Jarl my work is complete in Riften. I leave the Inn and then Windhelm entirely, making sure to collect my horse from the stables. I set off for Whiterun, still tired and beginning to feel the ever persistent hunger fighting against what is left of my humanity.

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I walk through the doors of the Dragonsreach, the sun set for barely an hour now. I carry my cloak over my arm and approach the Jarl's throne, hoping against hope that this time he'll be sure to pay me.  
I find him talking to Irileth who gives me a nod of acknowledgement before she leaves the hall. The Jarl looks up at me from his resting spot and offers a smile.  
"Ah, returned again! That was incredibly fast, Dragonborn, but I expected no less from you," I can tell he thinks quite fondly of me, but it doesn't matter an ounce to me if he's not going to pay me what I'm worth.  
"The dragon wasn't much of a fight," I reply with a light chuckle as I come to a stop in front of him. Balgruuf stands and puts a hand on my shoulder, leading me towards the staircase that leads up to his war room.  
"Walk with me, Leivah, I have a gift to give you. I've been speaking with Proventus and we've decided to give you Breezehome as a reward for all your efforts. I'm sure you were hoping for coin but we can't afford to give you much during this damnable war. I hope you find this to be an acceptable form of payment," his words are apologetic but still I can feel my stomach sink in sheer disappointment. What am I going to use a house for? I need coin for supplies, for travelling to continue doing this ridiculous job as Dragonborn. Does he really expect me to continue doing this now that he's revealed he cannot afford my services? He didn't even pay me for making the trip up to High Hrothgar, the 7000 steps felt like 7 million when the snow is assaulting you for days on end at an unreasonable altitude. But what am I meant to say to the Jarl of Whiterun, Skyrim's most influential city regarding trading and customs? That this _isn't_ good enough? That he can take Breezehome and shove it? As much as I'd like that, I don't see it on the cards. In the war room we find Proventus reclined in a chair reading a stack of papers. I catch words like 'installment' and 'renovation' printed neatly across the parchment in a regal, shining ink.  
"Ah, Leivah. I have some paperwork go over with you regarding you new home!" I grimace, trying not to seem completely put out by this turn of events. "I have a list of things that can be added and changed to make your house better! I just need to know which things you would like."  
"Surprise me, Proventus," I sigh wearily and manage a weak smile, my distaste thankfully not apparent enough to make the Jarl or Proventus uneasy, however Balgruuf does seem to notice I am tired.  
With a few more short words and awkward pleasantries I manage to get back out of the Dragonsreach, now holding onto the key for my new house. Not at all what I had hoped for but I still have plenty of gold for now. At least enough to update my inventory a bit. I lumber down the stair case towards town again, wondering why every single place of importance is on a goddamned hill top. Or cliff. Or 50000 miles below sea level in a dank old crypt. I groan and rub my face, completely unaware of the guards giving peculiar looks at an exhausted woman mumbling to herself in the dark.

Before I know what's happened I am outside Arcadia's Cauldron- I need to stock up on some things before I drop in to familiarize myself with my new abode. I push the door open, aware that it's beginning to get a little late. I find Arcadia idly counting coins behind her counter which is ladled with several things I plan to buy. She looks up at me and gives a gasp. I know where this is going.  
"Good heavens, child! Are you ill?" she puts down the coins and waits for me to speak.  
"No, I was just hoping to buy some things off you," I reply offhandedly, trying not to drool over the small money pile Arcadia leans over, eyeing me as if I carry the plague.  
"Well okay, I have some things, but you should know I don't restock again for another couple of days."  
"That's fine I only need a few items." How I hate common pleasantries. They're not pleasant at all. Just extremely draining. Perhaps I took living underground for granted. I smile, my mind suddenly very far off topic.  
I walk around the store gathering this and that, mainly health potions and a couple petty soul gems to recharge Dragonbane. I come to a stop when I see a dusty old knapsack laying abandoned in a corner. I pick it up and shake it, most the dust falling off quite easily.  
"Uh, Arcadia? How much for this old knapsack? I'll give you 20 septims for it?" Arcadia looks up from her alchemy table and squints at me and then the bag.  
"Yeah sure, traveler, I don't see why not," she shrugs and returns to her work. Peculiar woman. She doesn't seem to get out much, it's been a long time since anyone in Whiterun failed to address me as 'Thane' or 'Dragonborn', not that I particularly mind.  
I gather a couple more things and head towards the counter again, my arms piled high with shiny gems and clinking potions. The knapsack is hoisted over one shoulder and I place 20 septims on the counter as a base price.  
Arcadia leaves her alchemy table and approaches me. She counts everything up and gives me the price. I pay her in full and leave the shop.  
As I am making the short walk towards Breezhome I am suddenly approached by a courier. He stops right in front of me, wheezing.  
"Are you, ah.. are you the Dragonborn Leivah?" he asks, his voice hoarse. Without waiting for an answer he dives into his satchel and pulls out a neatly folded letter.  
"Yes I am- what is this? Who sent this?" I take the letter and open it finding only a hand print in black ink and two words; '**WE KNOW.**' We know? You know what? Who's we? I look up again and find the courier trying to get a look at the letter.  
"Who gave you this?" I shake the letter at him and he steps backwards out of my personal space.  
"I didn't get a name, just some creepy guy in a black cloak. Paid me a pretty price to get that into your hands. Been chasing you here since I got the letter in Windhelm," he huffs and bids me farewell.  
I stand still. I don't know why or how but I_ recognize_ this symbol. This hand and the black ink. What does it _mean_? I look around me before carefully folding it again and putting it away inside my knapsack. I walk briskly towards my house and then lock the door behind me. I don't know what good that will do against whoever sent this letter but I have an idea who it might be... Following me since Windhelm? This could mean one of two things from my perspective. Either someone knows I killed Friga Shatter-Shield or... The Dark Brotherhood knows I killed Grelod. I look around my house, any possible feeling of positivity I had regarding this new abode is lost in the weight of my new situation. I can see its outfitted with everything someone like me could want but, if the Dark Brotherhood has found me... I don't imagine I'll be around long enough to enjoy it.  
An idea strikes me and I begin rampaging through the house, looking over each and every bookshelf, diving into every chest and under every bed looking for books- any book that could tell me more about the Brotherhood.  
When I come up dry I find my hands are shaking and he house is already an absolute mess. A frenzy overwhelmed me and my head is still rushing. I do not have much time left.

It takes me hours to fall asleep and when I finally do collapse it is restless and unsettled.

* * *

_An entire year. 12 months. 4 seasons. But here they were again, face to face on the docks of Bravil, impending murder in the air. The water laps at the scum accumulated on the poles supporting the jetty, the moons setting a perfect scene for this chance encounter. One blade is drawn as the two foes stand in silence, the other seemingly defenseless. A cold wind has picked up, urging the water to grow angrier.  
"It's been a while," she says airily, her fingers twitching at her sides. Leivah waits for him to speak, to move, to _breathe_.  
"I'm surprised you haven't died yet. What are you? Like 11?" he lowers his knife and smirks. His words are cold, laced with spite. Leivah smiles, quietly admitting she'd missed their banter.  
"And what are you? Still an initiate I see." The sneer falls off his face and is replaced by something far less benevolent.  
"Tch. What do you want, girl? You summon me here and for what? A stare off?" Cicero's voice is flat, his expression frozen in a mild grimace. This particular child has given him nothing but strife, the likes of which someone so simple would never comprehend. Things at the Bravil Sanctuary have not been entirely pleasant since their last meeting.  
"Of course not. I wouldn't want to waste your extremely _valuable_ time," Leivah sniggers, pulling back the hood on her cloak. "I summoned you here to make a request."  
Cicero laughs. It is spiteful and empty and cruel but Leivah expected as much. "You want me to do you a _favour_? _You_? Do you know how much of a pain in the ass you've been for me? Letting you go not once, but twice has landed me in the worst possible position, and it's all your fault," Cicero steps forward, flipping his knife nimbly with his fingers so the hilt is facing Leivah who stands still, watching intently.  
Her fault? Was wanting to live, to be free of the Brotherhood so selfish? What could the Brotherhood even do to one of their own? Anything too harsh would surely be pressing into the bounds of one or two of the Five Tenants.  
"My fault? You are the one who has failed. Not me. If I failed do you think I'd be standing here right now? Perhaps the Brotherhood should recruit me inste-"  
"Shut it!" Cicero moved forward, his voice so low it was more growl than speech. He steps so close to Leivah he can touch her now, his knife held steadily at her neck. Leivah can feel him shaking, his face barely inches from hers. "Give me one reason to listen to you."  
"I can't." He reaches a hand to the back of her neck and squeezes hard causing her shoulders to haunch. Leivah does not make a sound of protest but rather looks him in the eyes. "However I can give you a reason to let me live."  
"What? What could possibly change my mind. I have spent a long time itching for this! Every day, every moment of pain, every time I received punishment, every single flogging I-" he stops and reels back as if burnt, the hand grasping his dagger falls helplessly at his side. He has let too much slip.  
There is a silence that falls between them; deafening, screaming.  
"The Brotherhood sounds horrible," Leivah says eventually, her voice barely audible.  
Cicero stares at the ground and lifts a hand to the cloth masking his face. He pulls it down and sweeps back his hood, revealing a mess of short red hair. His features are refined- dark, obviously Imperial. Stenciled eyebrows and harsh cheek bones, eyes sunken, lacerations across his jaw.  
"Yeah well. They're all I have. And _you_ ruined it."  
"I came here to ask you if I could join. I've trained for months, you know. I'm getting quite good. But... I don't like how they react to failure. I don't like what they've done to you simply because I am alive," her words are carefully chosen, each syllable uttered in a way that displayed no pity, no ounce of remorse or care. Without Tairah, without the clan he once lead, Leivah has realised she doesn't want to be alone anymore.  
He looks up and meets her gaze, disbelief coursing through him.  
"You called me here for that? You traveled all the way to Bravil from gods knows where, knowing there's a sanctuary here? You've climbed into the lions den to discuss becoming a lion?" He reels, almost insulted. She may be skilled, she may be clever, but this was down right stupid.  
"I am tired of running. Of fearing for my life and watching over my shoulder. I don't think I can live like this anymore. It was bad enough when Tairah was watching out for me but ever since you-..." she turns silent, suddenly aware of how personal this conversation has gotten. How did they get here?  
"My superiors would never approve, and nor do I. You're pathetic. A child," he brings the hood back over his head and covers his face again but Leivah notices how his eyes still seem to catch the light of the moons like amber against a fire.  
"You're a child too, Cicero." Her response is not one of spite but rather sincerity to bring him to her level- where he belongs. His eyes flicker up from the creaking boards of the dock and meet hers.  
"I cannot let you walk away from here, Leivah." His voice is even, his eyes as hollow as the void.  
"I know," she whispers.  
They stare at each other, neither one prepared to make a move but she knows its now or never. In one swift movement Leivah pulls a small throwing blade from her sleeve and before he even has time to realise she's begun to move its lodged in his thigh muscle. He shouts out in pain and falls to his knees, his hands going to the wound. Cicero pulls out the blade and begins to laugh madly.  
"Poison? Honestly! I expected better from a gifted mage! After our last farewell I had hoped to be frozen to the floor again by my feet!" His words are pained, his balance beginning to shake as he holds pressure to the bleeding opening. The poison will act quickly, first weakening his muscles, lowering his self control both physically and mentally leaving him quite vulnerable.  
"Hahahaaaa! I knew I liked you!" He waggles a finger at Leivah as she steps forward to collect her blade. As she bends to retrieve it Cicero grabs her by the front of her cloak and pulls her to the ground with his last ounce of strength. His eyes find hers one last time; unfocused, unseeing. "I am going to be so _fucked_ when I go home. Thanks once again," he releases her and drops to the ground motionless. She stares at him for a moment, her brow furrowed. There isn't much Leivah knows about the ways of the world outside killing kind folk who can't help but assist a lonesome Bosmer child, but what she does know is when someone is going to be punished. And this pathetic boy is going to be punished to within an inch of his life in a few small hours.  
She stands and puts her hood back on, tucking away her silver hair as she continues to star at his lifeless form.  
"I kind of like you too, Cicero."_

* * *

I can feel the world has shifted, my body aching. I can smell a faint trace of deathbell in the air before I open my eyes to find unfamiliar surroundings. I lay on a bed of moldy hay, rotted and decayed. I sit up, half alert, entirely confused. The room around me is spinning, my limbs numb and cold. I stand up, or rather try to, my legs refusing to cooperate. I put a hand to my head to try and steady myself and the room begins to calm.  
"Sleep well?" a sultry voice asks and I jump. My eyes focus with great effort and I see a women perched atop a decrepit old wardrobe. Her face is hidden, her posture completely lax.  
I feel the need to throw up. My head won't stop spinning and I can feel a familiar unpleasant sensation in my stomach.  
"Oh god, what did you do to me?" I clasp a hand to my mouth and double over.  
"Does it matter? You're warm, dry... and still very much alive. That's more than can be said for old Grelod. Hmm?" She is waiting for a reply but first I need to manage to choke down this mouthful of sick. I sit back down onto the bed and rub my face aggressively. This is what she calls 'very much alive'? What kind of physical state does she live in? She mentions Grelod and I look up, the bile in my throat seems to recede from whence it came.  
"Grelod? You know about that?" Of course she does. There's no doubt in my drug addled mind that she is here on Dark Brotherhood business.  
"Half of Skyrim knows. Old hag gets butchered in her own orphanage? Things like that tend to get around. Oh, but don't misunderstand. I'm not criticizing. It was a good kill. Old crone had it coming. And you saved a group of urchins, to boot. Ah, but there is a slight... problem." I don't like where this is going. I prepare for the worst; even I know you do not mess with the Brotherhood, no matter how insignificant you assume their regional control to be.  
"Problem?" I can feel the bile beginning to stir again. Oh god, why, of all narcotics, did she use this one? She obviously didn't rein my dosage in, I am poisoned.  
"Hmmm... Yes, you see, that little Aretino boy was looking for the Dark Brotherhood. For me, and my associates. Grelod the Kind was, by all rights, a Dark Brotherhood contract. A kill... that you stole. A kill you must repay." she intertwines her fingers together and props her chin up on her index fingers.  
"Repay? How?" I assume with my own life but if that was how she wanted it I wouldn't be breathing right now, I suppose. My head is starting to clear and I can hear her more clearly, her words less jumbled and blurred together.  
"Well now. Funny you should ask. If you turn around, you'll notice my guests. I've 'collected' them from... well, that's not really important. The here and now. That's what matters. You see, there's a contract out on one of them, and that person can't leave this room alive. But... which one? Go on, see if you can figure it out. Make your choice. Make your kill. I just want to observe... and admire." He eyes see past me and I turn to follow her gaze. There is indeed 3 people, kneeling, bound and tied with execution masks over their heads. I stand, finally having regained control of my faculties. I round the bed and walk towards the captives, one of whom is begging pitifully for us to spare his life while the other two ask for my name or question the circumstances which I deem to be fair.

I turn back to the women who has not moved an inch. "Any of them? Any rules?" She shrugs but does not speak.  
I think its time to weigh my options. I could attack her and contribute to the downfall of the Brotherhood... but Dalina never told me if their influence in my life was negative or positive. Quite the pickle.  
From what I have read on the Dark Brotherhood they're quite the sticklers for details, for keeping everything quick and clean, efficient. Something I have to admit I admire. There is no way they would bring three people here and then say only one is guilty just to test someone as insignificant as me. None of them will be walking away, even if I only killed one. All three it is.  
I stand next to the Nord in guardsman attire, his pathetic whimpering beginning to test my nerves. I do not even bother asking his name before I draw Dragonbane and run it through his shoulder and down into his torso. He lets out one final cry and falls to the floor after I withdraw my sword. I see the blood gush out from the wound as he lay lifeless on the floor, his body limp and slightly contorted. My nose twitches, my ears begin to flush. I can smell the blood seeping into the floorboards, running through the cracks like tiny rivers, the inaudible sound deafening to only me. The other two prisoners turn their bodies to face this direction, completely silent.  
"Make peace with your gods," I snarl, a twisted grin forming on my face and revealing my pointed fangs. I drive my sword far into the Khajiit's stomach and release the hilt, my eyes fixated on the Nord woman's throat.

_It's been so long._

I am unconscious to the Brotherhood member watching me with sharp eyes. I am dead to the world. I fall to my knees and take her head harshly in my heads, the smell of blood driving me into a frenzy. I can feel the faint struggling of a feeble opponent, heavy breathing in my ears. The world fades, comes into focus and fades again. My hands are shaking, clawing, my lips barely inches away from her throat. _Yes. Yes. Yes, now._ Jaws agape, I plunge my teeth into her skin, each thread of muscle sending ripples of flavour through my center, through the cracked remnants of a demons soul; my soul. I pull back, my mouth clamped shut. The woman is squirming, trying her best to shriek in pain and fight her restraints. Her suffering is not long lasting, the massive hole in her neck a miserable, broken flood gate. I go in again for a second take, just as exhilarating as the first. My teeth hit tendon, bone, sinew. I crush the obstructions, my ears ringing with the sound as the spine is pulverized to powder but still I can hear the Khajiit is alive, battling against blood loss to keep his wits. How sad.  
The Nord woman is gone now, her head completely separated from her body. I let her body fall alongside her head, a bloody mess down my front, my hair stained crimson in most places. I stand, satisfied and take the hilt of Dragonbane into my hands again and drive it further into the Khajiit and he screams. I put a bloodied hand to his throat and strangle his last cry into nothing but a woeful mewling, my face still frozen on a frightful expression. They should consider themselves lucky they cannot behold the beast that killed them.  
Panting, adrenalin pulsing through every fiber of my being, I turn, drenched, to the woman again who stares in silence. I approach her, my hands dripping a trail of blood in my wake.

"Have I appeased the Brotherhood?" I ask, intending it to be mostly rhetorical, but she replies regardless.  
"You _certainly_ have."


	5. Chapter 5

**dull chapter but i had to get things moving along, all these chapters without present day cicero is pre lame *v* **

**.**

* * *

_"Three times you have failed, brother. Three times you have disappointed me, all of us and yourself. What say you in your defense?"  
A show. An extravagant play to go with his brothers' and sisters' meals while he kneels on the stone, his head bowed in complacency at Assimo's feet once again. Snickering can be heard from the dwindling masses of what remains of the Bravil Sanctuary, faces huddled together in cliques, jeering, snorting, huffing.  
"I have no excuse, Assimo," Cicero says weakly, his senses numbed from the Bosmer child's poisoned blade.  
Silence befalls the room for they know what follows this grim admittance.  
"You have brought shame upon the Dark Brotherhood, Cicero." He looks up to address the crowd who all stand idly by, now used to this display of ridicule at the initiate's expense. "What should we do to teach him a lesson, my dear siblings?" Assimo raises his arms above his head, revealing a belt he had tucked away in his sleeve. Cicero glances up, tears welling in his eyes as the crowd begins to chant in unison; "Punishment, punishment, punishment, punishment."  
He falls onto his hands, his knuckles turning white as he balls his fists, waiting for the pain. A show. A remarkable play.  
Midst the crowd's rising cries a voice stands out. "You, are a waste. You have done nothing for the Brotherhood. Do not forget your mistakes." Assimo spits, hitting Cicero in the back of the head.  
A burst of anger splits him from his path of submission for only a moment as he utters, just loud enough, "I will not forget my mistakes as _you_ have forgotten my victories."  
A second of satisfaction before a foot collides harshly with Cicero's mouth, busting open his lip. The main hall of the sanctuary erupts into roars of approval, shouting from every corner of the room as he lay bleeding, crying. The screams hit an all time high as the belt is raised. A show. Rehearsed, practiced, executed.  
With a sickening crack the belt strikes down on the young boy, his cries rebounding off the walls only to be drowned out by continued cheering.  
"You brought this on yourself!" Another rip through the air and the belt slashes through clothing. Skin; white, pink, red, blue, purple and again. And again. And again. A scream, a shriek, an agonized cry that turns into a violent sobbing that rattles every joint in his body. His throat is raw, he coughs and blood splatters the slate ground, and again, and again. He is sick, no longer able to cry or scream, left only with the sensation of being turned forcefully inside out. The bile seeps into the ragged flesh inside his throat causing a second upheaval. Such a distasteful display is worthy of another couple lashings. A show. A parade of the refined art that tore a man to pieces with a scrap of metal and a strap of leather.  
Finally it stops, the blood trickling down the numb and freshly ravaged skin along his rib cage and onto the floor, pooling beneath him as he shakes in his own sick. Throbbing welts stacked high atop each other in a brilliantly twisted mirage of colours.  
The crowd is whistling; how can they shout for so long but not he? What is it that keeps them from coughing up crimson, throwing up bile?_

_Cicero curls into himself, the easiest part of the day is over, the crowds wailing finally receding to a more comfortable background level. Things begin to fade but he knows this respite will not be for long, for this is only the show. An extravagant play. It has been rehearsed, practiced and finally executed. But now the fun begins at the after hours party, behind the stage after the curtains fall, leaving all the unknowers, unknowing._

* * *

"You want me to _what_?" my voice is barely above a whisper, shock and awe written plainly across my face. The woman laughs and slides down from atop the wardrobe.  
"I would like to officially extend to you an invitation to join my Family. The Dark Brotherhood," her voice is smooth, even. She throws me the key to the shack and I catch it without breaking eye contact.  
"Join the Brotherhood? _Me_?" I find it hard to breathe momentarily. I've been searching for these people for weeks, and just like that they pop up out of no where and invite me to join their little club because I killed 4 defenseless people. I don't respond immediately but rather look between the door and the mysterious woman.  
"You're free to go," she begins, clearly seeing the temptation I find in perhaps simply walking free. "But I must urge you to strive for something more than taking orders from small children and an ungrateful Jarl." How could she possibly know about the Jarl's cheap behaviour?  
"You'd suggest taking orders from you would be better? Isn't that a little subjective?" I smirk, my tone joking but my question entirely serious as I glance behind me to the 3 lifeless corpses the lay sprawled across the wooden floor boards.  
"I would indeed say taking orders from me will be much more fitting to your abilities."  
I look back to her, finally making my decision.  
"I'll join you," I say slowly, letting the words sink into my own mind. _I'm joining the Dark Brotherhood._ This may be the best or worst thing I could possibly do, but the chance at unknown power? To know how they operate? To have somewhere to lay my loyalties, my efforts... It's been so long since I felt like I had direction- _real_ direction. A plan- despite remaining entirely confused about everything in this moment, I can feel everything fade, back away and leave me in peace. Every quaking unknown fear, every screaming and blurred memory that I can never decipher. All gone, as if asleep.  
"Smart choice. Now if you'll be so kind to follow me, I will show you to your new home." She walks past me and opens up the door with a second key. She holds it, waiting for me to step through. I take a deep breath, my future violently uncertain but I walk outside regardless, ready for whatever the gods have to throw at me.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You know, I am just now realizing we haven't exchanged names," I say from atop my horse which she was so kind to kidnap as well as me. The woman looks back at me from her own horse, a fierce looking black stallion with flaming red eyes I heard her call 'Shadowmere'.  
"The names Astrid, and I already know yours." Of course she does, how else would that courier have known it? That feels like years ago now, and certainly not last night. "Leivah, the mighty Dragonborn," she stifles a snigger and I frown.  
"You don't believe it, then?" I say, lifting an eyebrow. I have nothing to prove but to have the upper hand with this woman would be nice, even if only for the brief seconds it would take for her to accept my title as true.  
"Forgive me for not buying into every fairy tale the ridiculous old men on High Hrothgar throw at the people of Skyrim," she lifts a hand and pulls her cloth away from her face, revealing quite beautiful features. Her hair is blonde, her eyes piercing blue, dark shadows lacing every corner of her face no matter the angling of light that hits her.  
I scoff and shift in my saddle, my muscles aching. We've been riding in silence for quite a while now, the sun setting off in the distance. I can feel the pull of mild hunger, wondering if Astrid already knows my abhorrent nature. My curious behaviors, my need for excess clothing, my deep red eyes and my fangs, of course. Suddenly there's no doubt in my mind she knows what I am, especially since she's been stalking me for some time now apparently. I wonder just how much she knows.  
"I am compelled to ask you, Astrid... You know... about- _me_ right? What I am?" She turns again, lifting her leg across the horse's whither to sit side saddle. Shadowmere remains walking even after she releases the reins.  
"Of course. I'm surprised the entirety of Whiterun isn't chasing you out of town let alone _giving_ you the only vacant house they had left... I suppose your status as Thane makes people turn their heads? Assume unfortunate genetics regarding your pallid complexion and striking eye colour?" I can tell her questions are rhetorical and I think heavily on what she's saying. I could definitely use my status to get certain privileges... Perhaps I should do so more often? Or would that just cause suspicion? Either way I think my current behavior in Whiterun has been satisfactory.  
"It doesn't bother you, then? Will it bother anyone else at the Sanctuary?" I am suddenly hideously aware that I will have to meet new people, make acquaintances with strangers and share quarters with trained murderers. Fantastic.  
Astrid looks at her fingernails and mindlessly picks dirt from under them, her gloves tucked between her legs. "Of course not. We already have a resident Vampire. She quite unlike you however... physically she's only 10 but shes much older than anyone else I know. Extremely skilled with alchemy- potions."  
I am relieved to know I won't be making any one uncomfortable with my '_condition_'; hopefully they'll return the favour and not make me too uncomfortable either.

More time passes agonizingly slowly and I repress the need to repeatedly asking how far we are from our destination. We passed Whiterun a fair few hours ago, the sleeping city melding with the black of the sky. Confusion. Why would they take me North of Whiterun only to end up leading me South of Whiterun? Curiosity strikes me again and I ask her.  
"Regulation. That abandoned shack is where we do all our hostage business," she answers offhandedly and I figure that it does indeed make sense to do things that way. But then again, all this travelling is leaving me exhausted. I need to stop and settle for a while before I get sick. I hope the Sanctuary will be comfortable.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Finally we reach a place called Falkreath, somewhere I stopped briefly on my way to Whiterun from Cryodiil.  
"Falkreath? Really?" I don't know what I expected but this certainly was not it. The last Brotherhood in all of Skyrim, possibly Tamriel, and it's in damned Falkreath. I walked right past my goal without even knowing. Mildly flustered, I dismount from my horse. I can see the sun rising far off on the horizon through the heavy thickets of trees and bristle bushes.  
"Really Falkreath," Astrid says, also dismounting. She releases Shadowmere who runs off ahead of us. I look at Astrid with mild interest, questions rising about the nature of that peculiar horse.  
Astrid leads me off the unkempt cobble road in the direction that Shadowmere went, her hood on and her mask back up over her face. We walk down a slightly worn dirt path among the trees until we come to a black pool of water; a dead end until Astrid turns from the pool and goes towards a door I failed to notice. It asks a question, the voice echoing and harsh, causing me to jump and then wince slightly at the pitch. My Bosmer ears are far too attuned to sounds and vibrations for my liking at times. The door is heavy looking, glowing slightly and it depicts a skull, a black hand print on it's forehead. That symbol again.  
"_What is the music of life_?"  
"Silence, my Brother," Astrid replies promptly, clearly done this thousands of times. It swings open to reveal a stairway descending into the rock. We enter inside and the door closes behind us, my fate seeming to be as equally sealed. Astrid stops me in what appears to be the entrance room.  
"So, before you meet everyone and get settled I have some spare armor of mine you can have." She walks away into a room off the side; I assume it's her bedroom. She returns with armor exactly like her own and hands it to me. "Hope it fits you. Enjoy," she gestures towards a small door way before heading back into her room and closing the door. Peculiar woman. Carrying my armor, feeling incredibly worn and beaten I enter into a large cavernous area. I notice that many types of plants are growing here and a waterfall is happily pooling into a small pond, a mysterious window with a skull similar to the Sanctuary entrance door looms above the flowing stream. A small group of people are standing in a circle, talking animatedly to each other near a small smithing area. I hang back and eavesdrop for a moment, listening to them speak in an attempt to get a feel for their personalities. I see a short Argonian, a white headed Nord, a tall elderly man dressed like a mage, the 10 year old vampire Astrid spoke of, a heavily cloaked Dark Elf woman and a Redguard man. Interesting mix. I can hear the child calling for pitifully for help before laughing heartily at her own impression. She seems twisted; I'm sure I will like her.  
The group disperses and I decide it's time to enter the room properly.  
The Nord looks up from the smithing area, now holding a battered and dulled sword in his hands. He nods knowingly at me and continues his work. The Argonian is sitting nearby on the floor in a small training area. He looks up at me and greets me warmly. I smile, painfully conscious of my fangs showing. He doesn't seem to react at all; how refreshing.  
I walk past him and find a familiar stone crescent shaped wall. I look at it, hoping no one notices my suddenly transfixed expression. I can feel the tiny tendrils of a blue essence reaching for me, similar to that of absorbing a dragon soul, but calmer, softer. The bright white waves stretch out from a single word carved into the stone, encasing me, circling me in a nonexistent wind that flurries my hair, my cloak. The word seeps into my very being and I understand it, a potent word. Cruel. I understand it as 'Marked for Death'. A new Shout to add to my short but steadily growing list. This new surprise and unintended gift from the Brotherhood does not bode well. As excited as I am something seems to be pulling violently at me to leave, to run and go home and not return until every last Brotherhood member is dead. Something about Astrid, the way she speaks, conducts herself... Something feels off about this entire operation but I can't pin point exactly what it is yet.

I realize suddenly I don't know where I am meant to go but I continue to walk aimlessly until I've talked to a few of the members. I meet Veezara, Gabriella, Festus Krex and finally Babette, my fellow vampire. She is seated alone overlooking a small pit where I find a young Frostbite Spider. I have not enjoyed any time spent with those creatures thus far.  
Babette looks up at me from her chair and offers me a seat. I oblige and she begins to speak.  
"Astrid said she was looking for someone new," she says plainly, a brief smile playing her lips before she turns in her chair to face me directly. "Welcome to the Brotherhood. My name is Babette. Don't let my appearance deceive you, initiate, for I am well over 300 years old. It's been quite a boon, looking like a child. No one ever suspects a thing," she smiles widely, her crimson eyes glinting in the half light. I return her smile, happy to feel a slight twinge of familiarity for the first time since leaving my home in Cryodiil.  
"I'm Leivah, the Dragonborn. I'm barely 35 years old myself," I say, suddenly experiencing flashbacks of nothing but the eerie blackness of the crypt. 15 long years in the dark, surfacing only of a night to feed, to occasionally mingle with the townsfolk on rare evenings during strange celebratory festivities.  
"Dragonborn?" She raises an eyebrow.  
"Uh. Yeah. That's a thing that happened to me recently." I laugh awkwardly before standing. "I'm not really into it very much... too much honor and all that. Doesn't suit my style unless it's raining me with coin," I smile, genuine but still uncomfortable. I suppose years without real social practice has left me quite inept, if not entirely.  
"I'd be interested in witnessing a demonstration at some point," Babette says before turning back to watch the spider in quiet contemplation; 300 years of memories must really give a person something to think about.  
"I'll be sure to drag you along with me next time I slay something," I turn and leave, still searching for the bedrooms.

Eventually I find what I'm looking for and place my things inside a wooden chest at the end of a bed that seems vacant, lightly coated with dust. I get undressed and examine my new armor- obviously enchanted.  
It's been so long since I did any enchanting myself... I can see the tiny waves of energy flowing like faint, glowing mist over the finely stitched leather and the shining metal. I slip on the pants, the clothes tight fitting, more so than I am used to but the soft humming in the fabric easily compensates my slight discomfort. I put on my top half, struggling slightly with all the buckles and strings and snaps. Finally I have it on and it fits surprisingly well although I am sure with time the leather will stretch and wear into my shape even more. I slip on the boots and gloves and finally my hood, the cloth fitting snugly over the bridge of my nose. I think I like this.

I put my old clothes in the chest with my excess belongings but keep my cloak draped around my shoulders; as much as I enjoy the weather here it does get extremely unpleasant at times.  
I wander for a while longer until I find my way back to the entrance room. The large map of Skyrim with seemingly random points marked on it sitting flat and pinned to a big stone table tells me this is actually the war room. I examine it for a moment before Astrid emerges from her room and looks me up and down.  
"Not bad. Looking the part now, Sister," She laughs softly and approaches me, her expression falling blank. "Well. What happens now is you start your new life in the Dark Brotherhood. You're part of the Family, after all. This, as you have seen, is our Sanctuary. You won't find a safer place in all of Skyrim. So get comfortable.' She stares at me and when I don't respond she continues. "Now before I can let you retire for the day I need to tell you how things are run around here... Recently I have received word from someone known as 'The Keeper' who has traveled here to Skyrim from Cryodiil with precious cargo; our unholy matron, 'the Night Mother'. He was meant to be here months ago but his letters had stopped coming for a time..." She trails off momentarily, a hand raised to rub her chin. I take note that she likes to hear herself talk. Her words always seem either blunt or endless. "Soon, the Night Mother will arrive. And things around here are sure to get even more interesting."  
"_More_ interesting? I will admit I do not know much at all about your traditions-"  
"Bah, tradition! This Sanctuary has not followed the original 5 Tenants in decades. With no Listener to hear the Night Mother's words we've had to learn to fend for ourselves, to go out and find our own contracts. Look what '_tradition_' got the Dark Brotherhood everywhere else! _Extinction_!" Her tone is shape, her words obviously final despite my lack of actual contribution. I am lost for a reply, realizing that despite my best efforts I have found nothing on the Dark Brotherhood at all; they've been an exceedingly difficult bunch of folks to track down. As if reading my mind Astrid gestures to a nearby shelf and instructs me to read up on what the Dark Brotherhood is- what we stand for. I find a couple books, all extremely insightful and apparently impossible to find anywhere besides this Sanctuary. Regardless I am grateful for the heads up.  
"I'll be sure to serve you well, Astrid."  
"Be sure that you do. Also do take note that I will not be handing you contracts until you prove yourself useful, so go find Nazir, the RedGuard. He'll hand you an easy contract to help us monitor your performance." I nod and leave her leaning in the door way to the main room as I carry a small stack of books back to my room, thankful to be free from her lecturing.

I somehow manage to get myself lost and find I am in what is obviously the dining room. I passed through here earlier but now I find Nazir sitting quietly alone at the long table. I approach him as he eats languidly, his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing.  
"Uh, Nazir?" He turns and smiles slyly, putting down his loaf of bread.  
"Ah fresh meat. I'm sure you think you know all you need to know about carrying out contracts, right? Well excuse me for doubting you. I'm _so_ sorry to say we won't be getting along until you've lived longer than a week," his tone is flat and I can tell he's probably seen many an initiate come and go in the span of a month or so. I put the books down on the table with a thud, a small cloud of dust rising off them at the sudden disruption.  
"I was told to come to you get get a practice contract?" I am too tired for any more sass.  
"_A_? I have 3 here for you, better get to work, initiate." He smiles wickedly before proceeding to give me three names and places. "There are no rules, dispose of them however you see fit, just don't compromise the Brotherhood in any fashion. Are we clear?" I answer and then leave, taking my books with me.

I am very keen to get out there and do what I do best, but for now I need to rest up before I begin traveling all over Skyrim again.

* * *

_It's been some time now since Leivah rendered Cicero unconscious, his body limp and awkward on the rotting wooden dock. Eventually she sighs, knowing it won't be safe for him to be left laying here in the open. Her homemade poison was a lucky dip regarding duration and she wouldn't want him to be left unprotected and exposed like that. He's much bigger than she is and it takes a long time for her to move him into a place that is secluded, a little more private. She props him up into a sitting position against a tree and kneels beside him, biting her lip. Her hand reaches out, hesitating mere inches from his face before she finally pulls down his mask. There they are; the lacerations across his jaw.  
"What happened here..." softly, carefully she puts a hand to his face, her fingers lightly brushing against the agitated flesh. "Stupid boy." She wants to ask a million questions of him, her entire year spent wanting to know everything about him. His last name, his day of birth, his reasons for joining the Brotherhood and his reasons for staying. She wants to know why he keeps letting his guard down around her- why he doesn't seem to be trying hard enough.  
Why fail and let her go free? Surely their encounters to date weren't this kids best shots. She examines the small wound on his leg, still bleeding. Her hands begin to move, to whisk suddenly and effortlessly into a deliberate pattern, a yellow glow beginning to form around her dancing hands. A healing spell, plain and simple. She presses a hand to the wound and it stops bleeding. The skin grows over, stretches and reforms into fresh and healthy skin.  
She lets herself fall back and land on the ground in a sitting position, her eyes studying each and every angle of his face. High cheekbones, an almost permanent gaunt expression, sunken eyes.  
Leivah sits in quiet contemplation, her fingers drawing circles in the dirt. A bombardment of questions suddenly hit her, but not for Cicero.  
Why did she care what happened to this stupid, weak, boy? Why did she seek him and the Brotherhood out when she knew they'd never take her? Why does the utter rejection even hurt so much? Why doesn't she just kill him now and walk away? Her hands claim her face and she groans into her palms, stopping only when she hears Cicero begin to stir. Standing quickly, she covers her head with her hood and leaves him, watching from a far distance as he stands shakily, mumbling to himself. Soon the stumbling turns into a stand still, his mumbling turning into cursing. He slams a fist against the tree he was previously leaning on and falls to his knees. From here Leivah can see he's crying, bowed with his face in the dirt as his body shakes with violent, silent wailing. She watches for a time until it's too much and she begins her long trek for Cheydinhal, desperate to wipe the sounds of frantic gasping, bruised fists repeatedly beating the ground in a fit of despair.  
His body language is all too familiar and she remembers. It is an unwelcome feeling but it makes her realize why she cares . She remembers._


	6. Chapter 6

**BIG CHAPTER AWYEEEEE GET SET KIDS**

**.**

* * *

3 days had passed since I left the Sanctuary, the only sound I can hear is the soft thudding of my horse's hooves against the dirt pathway. I can't believe they sent me to Dawnstar. Of all the places they could have received a contract from, they received it from damned Dawnstar. I decided to perform the other two contracts on the way home, for no particular reason, perhaps just wanting to get the worst one out of the way. This particular contract is someone I know, a woman called Beitild. I must admit I'm looking forward to it seeing as she's phenomenally disliked by everyone for being extremely unpleasant in every possible way. Of course that tends to happen to anyone who runs a mine all day and doesn't do much else besides getting hassled by her employees.

Eventually I reach Dawnstar, exhausted and weak, but not hungry for the moment; some unfortunate bandits a couple hours back would be able to tell you why.  
It's late at night and I can see the Inn. I decide here would be a nice place to tie my horse. I give her a soft pat on the shoulder and head towards the spot that Beitild usually hovers around, knowing that even this late hour wouldn't keep her from her work. Surely enough she is there by the smelt, grumbling away as a guard walks past holding a torch in their hand.  
Fantastic. Still on patrol. I can feel my fingers itching, excited to take her out. Beitild is consistently cautious and has a nasty habit of being suspicious about everything which during my last trip here was rather unfortunate for me.  
No worries. If there's one thing I know about Beitild it's that she can't back down from a threat. I approach her, stepping out from the shadows as I saunter right up to her in plain sight. She turns at the sound of footsteps on the snow. With my face shrouded she twists her face into an arrogant expression as if mocking me. When I come close enough, the guard now rounded the sloping corner towards the lower part of town, I speak to her.  
"The Dark Brotherhood, sends their regards, Beitild," and surely enough she draws her pick axe with a grunt of disgust.  
"That damn woman will not have me killed by scum like you!" She advances and I turn tail and run, smirking as I hear her shout in annoyance from behind me. She follows me out of town, away from her safety net of guards. Such foolish arrogance. I stop and turn, the distance between us greater than expected as she shouts profanities at me.  
"Decided to give up, eh?" her expression is ferocious, her eyes wild as she pants from running uphill into the forestry after me.  
She lifts her pickaxe and swings it wide but I dodge it easily, her fighting style entirely unrefined and predictable. In her anger she over balances and I move in, a dagger sunk deep into her spinal cord. She lets out a low moan as she falls helplessly to her knees, her body crippled and unresponsive.  
"Welcome to the Void," I say, my voice grave as her eyes close, now laying down in the snow.  
I rode here for 3 days just for the split second it took to sever this person's spinal cord. Incredible. I wish I could have been in the Brotherhood back when they didn't only have one pathetic rogue Sanctuary in Falkreath of all places. Or perhaps I was around then... Not that I could remember.  
I wipe my dagger on the leg of her pants and put it away, sighing. The adrenaline is gone, lasting only until the point that her eyes closed. Such a shallow feeling these days, its getting harder and harder to make it last longer, to feel the same way it did when I first started killing. Now it's just another day.  
I return to the Inn and mount my horse, yawning and considering mild starvation to return the original rush, even if only briefly. But I know that won't work. There's killing for fun and there's killing to live. There's killing to simply watch the life run out onto the ground and then there's an unnatural will forcing your hand to keep you alive, functioning.

* * *

_It is late, the cold night air penetrating even the Bravil Sanctuary to an unfavorable extent. The fires are out and the initiate is still laying on the floor; a hasty healing spell had stopped most the bleeding hours ago. The haven is as silent as the void until he can hear the muffled sound of movement and again, through his exhaustion, he begins to quiver. The after hours party has arrived at long last. Through the door way the faint glimmer of torch light turns into an almost blinding explosion of crackling flame as Assimo enters the room. Cicero's arms twitch, joints creak, skin drags against the stone through dried blood as he fights to move, to back away. His eyes adjust through painful straining and he can see him now, his expression twisted into a gentle smile. Twisted. Unnatural. He extends a hand down to Cicero who knows better than to decline. He knows better than to disobey when his master is calling.  
"You know I hate doing that, my dear," he purrs as Cicero holds his tongue, fighting out the images of the cruel sneer he always wears when wielding that godforsaken belt. He is upright now, his body screaming in agony as new the rush of blood rips through partially dried wounds, coursing through blisters and contusions the size of his own hand. Assimo tuts and moves his hands to remove the rags slung bloodied around Cicero's hunched shoulders, draped like crusted spiderwebs across his aching back. The cloth is stuck, dried to the skin under flaking specks of blood. He peels the cloak's remains free, taking skin with it. A healing spell and a few kind words and the mess is gone, leaving only light scars as always. Cicero sighs heavily, the pain gone and his mind clearing, finally. How hilarious he finds it that hours of suffering alone on a cold slate floor could be ended so easily by the same person who dealt the pain to begin with. How hilarious indeed.  
"All better," Assimo utters, putting a hand on Cicero's lower back and steering him towards the hallway through which he had just come; back to his bedchamber.  
His mind reels, suddenly acutely aware of whats going on- though unsurprising- he begins to blink erratically, his head shaking minutely from side to side. He wants to stop, he wants to go back to laying half dead on the floor, even that- even _anything_ would be better than the nightmare he's about to face. His body refuses and he continues walking, Assimo completely unaware of the violent battle raging inside his younger counterpart. They reach the bedroom, both of them silent as Assimo reaches the far wall bookcase and activates a hidden lever which opens the book case wide. Cicero is shaking now, his body tensing, biting his lip and trying his best to keep the itching heat in his eyes at bay. Assimo ignores him but rather steps down into the stone passage, pushing Cicero ahead of him. The bookcase swivels back shut and Cicero jumps at the noise, flash backs compiled entirely of every single time he'd walked down this exact passage way, every moment of fear inclining rapidly higher with every visit. Assimo's hands are soft, pressing lightly into his scarred skin as he begins to hum a familiar song that chills him to the bone; his happy song- a song to sing when he knows he can finally be himself. Twisted. Cruel._

_Cicero watches as the passage opens up finally into a small stone room, deep bellow the Sanctuary and far from prying eyes. A single bench lay in the middle of the room, a small basin of water and a cloth lay atop a wooden end table. His eyes grow wide, his body twitching violently, turning slightly, atoms itching, cells scrambling. He moves to turn properly but two gentle hands come to rest on his shoulders.  
"Cicero. you know better than to misbehave," he coos, his voice gentle. He may only be 10 years older than Cicero but there's something wise about him, about how he pulls his black hair back into an immaculate ponytail, the way his eyes narrow when spoken to. His rise to power through the ranks was no simple task. He's earned his place by playing the game, following the rules and only focusing on his goal of power. But now he bends the rules, the breaks the tenants, he defies everything the Brotherhood stands for and yet no one questions him. No one dares make even a side glance at this man for it may very well be their last and he knows it. He knows because he's trained them all to '_behave_'. To beg like dogs in the dirt, to roll over when told to. To speak in turn and follow blindly. But still the others do not know what Cicero knows. They do not know why that young initiate died mysteriously here at the Sanctuary 4 years ago. They do not know what Assimo does behind his book case in the depths of Bravil. No one knows how far his demonic desires go. But Cicero knows. He knows why.  
_

_He moves behind him and presses his body against Cicero, hands reach around his neck from behind, clawed finger nails digging ever so lightly against his throat. Physical repulsion hammers through Cicero's core, his body shuddering in pure distaste. He does not move. He does not flinch. He breathes slowly, still as a statue and tries not to throw up again. A soft kiss is pressed to the nape of his neck. Twisted. Impure.  
"You know why I have to do this," he whispers against his skin before violently pushing him forward towards the bench. He moves quickly and pins him down, strapping him to the table as Cicero refuses to fight him. There is no chance he could beat Assimo unarmed and alone in his most adrenalin fueled state. When the hunger takes Assimo, only the break of day light can release him from his tainted grasp._

_Cicero stares the ceiling, his arms, legs and chest bound tightly to the stone table. Assimo stares at him, taking in every single centimeter of his victim, wondering where to start. He rounds the table to Cicero's side, moving his head mere inches from Cicero's ear. They're both shaking, opposing sides coming to collide in a crash of sweat and blood, anguish and domination. His voice is shaking, his hands curling around the edge of the bench, his desires becoming entirely uncontrollable.  
__"I promise to be gentle," Assimo finally says, his breath hot on Cicero's ear. He barks a laugh in response, bitter but full of fear. He knows there will be no restraint this evening in his master's behaviour. In fact it will be worse than ever. After a beating that bad his emotions can only be running at their highest and most volatile.  
__The laughter does not come cheap. Assimo withdraws and moves to unstrap Cicero's right arm in a flurry, his actions erratic. In one simple motion after his arm is free, Assimo snaps it backwards at the joint over his thigh. The sound it elicits from Cicero is _delicious_. A compound fracture bursts straight through the initiate's skin, splattering a generous amount of blood across the floor and Assimo's clothes. He moves a hand to cover Cicero's mouth, his breaths long and strained as he tries to scream against the palm. He's crying now but refuses to resist.  
__"Good _pet_, good Cicero..." He strokes his hair now that Cicero has fallen silent again, noting the frantic rise and fall of his chest as he fights the urge to sob. He ties his arm down again, not caring to be gentle as the bone sticks out awkwardly, blood still steadily spilling onto the floor from the savage puncture.  
He bites his lip in pain to the point he tears the skin and Assimo can't help but notice this, his eyes growing wide as an urgent and unfamiliar craving possesses him. Cicero's eyes are clamped shut until the moment Assimo kisses him full on the mouth, desperate to taste his blood, to taste his despair. He whimpers into the kiss, uncomfortable in every possible way as his master sucks at the break in his lip. His breath is suffocating and his master's body is quaking now, his hands rising to roughly cradle his face as he leans over Cicero. More tears flow down his cheeks as Assimo finally pulls away, seeming to feel a little lost. He'd never done anything like that. Twisted. Depraved.  
A small silence before he apologises for what hes about to do. Back on course._

_Assimo steps back and rubs his hands together methodically, warming them up for his most impersonal but definitely one of the most unlikable of all his parlor tricks. White sparks begin to fly, the sound of static crackling through the stale air as electricity begins to revolve around Assimo's quivering fingertips. Cicero's eyes dart between the ceiling and his master's hands as he steps closer again, poising them for his attack. He can see the power surging through Assimo's entire body and behind his dark brown eyes as the blue lightening dances through every cell creating an unmatched sense of euphoria. His chest rises and falls faster again, violent breaths threatening to turn into more crying.  
"Please- please don't-!" His words fall on deaf ears and the sparking tendrils fly from Assimo's hands and hit him square in the chest. Seemingly endless heart palpitations, shock waves sending his body into raging convulsions. His appendages spasm violently and his mind is engulfed by a harsh and thunderous laughter. Screams tear flesh from the inner walls of his throat for the second time this evening, his eyes rolling back into his skull until the chaotic drumming of power ceases and he is calmed by what can only be a healing spell. He cannot see and his ears are ringing at a painful pitch, causing him to feel dizzy despite laying still. He can sense a peculiar sensation as if his flesh has begun to melt from his bones and meld into the pigmentation of the stone bench. He can distantly feel hands roughly snapping his arm back into place but he makes no sound in protest. There would be no point. The feeling of blood rising in his mouth vanishes and he can see again for the moment.  
"I hate doing this," Assimo purrs with a smile that suggests his words are phenomenally untrue. Cicero's body comes to relax, muscle returning to regular form, bones rejoining at fractured junctures. A breath, a moment to think, to feel something as human as physical normality. But the pain is back as instantly as it ceases and the wailing starts anew. And again. And again. Over and over as he sees the light of death he is pulled ferociously back by gentle whispers and soothing spells until he's cast spinning into the void once more. Assimo is no longer recognizable; his hair cascades in a whirlwind around his face, the whites of his eyes seeming to pop forward as his barking cackle drives Cicero further and further down. He cannot see or hear even when his body is 'restored'. He is drenched in sweat and even the healing spells are beginning to not have a complete effect each time. Veins are exploding, blood is gushing into his stomach and up into his lungs until they collapse over and over. He's frothing at the mouth and choking, air failing to have any effect on his brain as it begins to whiter further and further. Death's icy grip is beginning to shroud every inch of what remains of Cicero, the sweet release so close now.  
It stops. Suddenly and without warning. A final healing spell, complete and total. Veins rejoining, blood draining, lungs filling and expelling again.  
He wonders if its over but deep down he knows this is only the beginning. He knows he won't be free till morning.  
He breathes deeply in defeat before he hears the sickening crunch that is his breast plate shattering in his chest._

* * *

I've managed to catch a mild cold since leaving Ivarstead but I'm finally heading home to Falkreath. _Home_. Such a foreign word to me. I pass through small town after small town, snow, hail and sunshine. I'm exhausted and my nose won't stop running, every bone in my body aches. I hate travelling so far all the time.  
But now I've reached Falkreath and I am filled with an air of excitement, longing for my bed and a hot meal, keen to see the mild surprise on Nazir's face when he find's I'm still alive and have successfully completed his tedious missions. After making sure my horse is safe at the stables I let my body take control of where I'm going and I can almost smell the dusty cavern already as I stray from the main path and down towards the entrance of the Sanctuary. The door greets me with a familiar question and I push inside, wiping my nose lazily. I pull back my hood as I walk down the steps. I note that Astrid isn't here in the war room but my foggy mind barely cares. I walk to the arch way but stop when I hear a slightly agitated conversation taking place in the main room. My eyes open wide and I fight to focus them, my body already thinking way ahead as if already laying in bed to sleep. I hear mumbling and then a familiar, grating voice speaks.

"But the Night Mother is mother to all! It is her voice we follow! Her will! Would you dare risk disobedience? And surely... _punishment_?" No. Way.  
"Keep talking, little man, and we'll see who gets 'punished'." No way is this happening.  
"Oh, be quiet you great lumbering lapdog. The man has had a long journey. You can at least be civil. Mister Cicero, I for one am delighted you and the Night Mother have arrived. Your presence here signals a welcome return to tradition." You have _got_ to be kidding me.  
"Oh, what a kind and wise wizard you are. Sure to earn our Lady's _favor_." Surely enough there he is, standing next to the giant crate he had on his broken cart. Cicero, the foolish jester whose cart I fixed a couple weeks ago. I cannot believe that he of all people is here in the Brotherhood. I'm returned to my haze but this one is less pleasant. How..?  
"You and the Night Mother are of course welcome here, Cicero. And you will be afforded the respect deserving of your position as Keeper. Understood... husband?" _Keeper_? _He's_ the damned Keeper we've been waiting on? He should have been here much earlier than even I after I fixed his cart... What took him so long?  
Arnbjorn grunts in response and leaves the circle.  
"Oh, yes yes yes! Thank you, thank you, thank you!" He clasps his hands and bounces on the balls of his feet- a repeating quirk of his, I note. Astrid watches in mild shock at his flamboyant behaviour, her eyes flicking between the crate and the peculiar man who she clearly does not want here despite her words of welcome.  
"But make no mistake. _I_ am the leader of this Sanctuary. My word is _law_. Are we clear on that point?" Astrid steps forward, a little close to Cicero who does not move but rather agrees eagerly.  
"Oh _yes_, mistress. Perfectly! _You're_ the boss!" And with that the group of on lookers disperse, including Astrid who finally notices me lurking in the shadow of the doorway.  
"Ah, there you are. Good, I was done speaking with that muttering fool anyway. We've got some business to discuss." She leads me back into the center of the war room, a hand to her mouth as she begins to pace.  
"Do you have a contract for me, Astrid?" I say, rubbing my face as I try to ignore the inane humming coming from the main room.  
Astrid scowls deeply but replies quickly, her words seeming to spill out of her mouth automatically. "I do indeed. You must go to the city of Markarth, and speak with the apothecary's assistant. You'll probably find her in the shop, The Hag's Cure. The girl's been running her mouth, wants an ex-lover killed. She's apparently performed the Black Sacrament. Her name is Muiri. I need you to talk to her, set up the contract, and carry it out."  
I resist the violent urge to moan aggressively. More traveling. "Markarth? Okay... is there anything else I need to know about this contract? Any rules?" I sniffle, putting extra effort into enunciating so my cold doesn't seem too bad.  
"Just do whatever the contact wishes. Be professional, represent us well, and get the job done. Since it's your first contract, I'll let you keep whatever Muiri pays. She'll be generous, I'm sure. They always are." She gives me a brief smile before returning to her map on the stone table.

I stand still for a moment absorbing the new information. My first real contract. I must admit I'm excited to finally demonstrate my actual skill although I'm not keen to be travelling so far again. After a short while I leave the war room and find Cicero staring intently at the crate that no doubt holds the Night Mother's coffin. I walk up behind him, not caring if he hears me or not; I'm too tired for my usual playful element of surprise. About a meter from where he stands, obviously absorbed in his thoughts, I clear my throat rather inelegantly as it causes me to cough a bit. He spins around just as quickly as I remember. I smile and raise an arm into a weak wave. He smiles widely at me before speaking in his usual cheery tone.  
"Another member of the Family! Hello, hello. So very good to meet you." A moment of silence and I decide he's forgotten me. I'd be lying if I said that didn't hurt seeing as I killed two innocent people for him and fixed his cart with my own two hands, but before I can mention our previous encounter, he beats me to it. "Wait, oh wait. I know you! Yes, yes. From the road! Cicero never forgets a face." Nonsensical relief washes over me. I didn't particularly like the idea of being snubbed by an apparently insane jester.  
"Yeah, you were the man with the broken wheel. I fixed it for you so you could move your mother," I say, smiling brightly despite my obvious exhaustion; I can practically feel the weight of the circles under my eyes.  
"I am! I am! But not just my mother. Our mother, hmm? The Night Mother! Oh yes! And you helped me! You helped poor Cicero! You talked to Loreius, tried to get him to fix my wheel! Oh, you may have pleased me, but you have surely pleased the Night Mother. And our mother, she will never forget that you were the one who fixed our cart," he speaks so wildly, I can't help but hang on to every word.  
"Yeah... well, I really do hope our brothers and sisters welcome you as they did me a couple weeks back, Cicero. Make yourself at home," I put out my hand and he shakes it firmly with both of his own.  
"So polite! So nice! Cicero likes you. The Night Mother is sure to like you too. Oh, we're going to be fast friends. _Fast_ friends," he releases my hand and turns back to the crate, a hand to his chin in thought. I stare for a moment at him before asking him a question.  
"Who are you, anyway? I mean I know you're the Keeper but is there anything else to you?" I realise my words might be a bit harsh sounding, as if I think him to be nothing more than a simple jester, however when he responds my mild feelings of trepidation melt away.  
"Me? Oh, Cicero is just the Keeper! I... keep! I look after our matron, you see. The Night Mother. I keep her clean, and protected, and happy... But I am not the Listener. Oh no. There is no Listener. Not yet! But some day, some day, _some day_ I pray, that one will come to hear her say... _The words_." His answer only furthers his mystery if I'm being honest with myself. 'The words'? 'Listener?' I'd heard of someone called 'the Listener' in the books Astrid lent me but nothing too detailed was explained, only that they're the only few who can speak to the Night Mother directly.  
"Okay so why'd you leave Cyrodiil, then?" I question, folding my arms across my chest and shifting my weight to one side. He looks at me for a moment, thinking about his answer.  
"The Night Mother's crypt in Bravil was... _desecrated_. The Imperial Province is ravaged by strife. Nowhere there is safe, at present." His voice falls flat and he takes a moment to breathe before continuing more slowly. "So, Cicero brought our Lady to her new home. Here! This is the only Sanctuary left in all of Skyrim, you see. Such was my... honor. As Keeper."  
"Keeper huh... Must be difficult carrying that around Skyrim on your own," come to think of it, if he's come here from Cryodiil, why then was he North of Whiterun? I decide to hold my tongue for now. When he doesn't answer I continue. "Did you need a hand moving her to the chapel?" I ask, gesturing to the crate. I'm in no shape to be lifting heavy things as my increasingly worsening form of speech is reminding me but I'm admittedly becoming quite interested in what he may or may not be hiding. He looks at me in shock, clearly not used to people offering to help him so willingly- after all, last time it took 200 septims just to get me to listen.  
"Why- yes! Certainly yes! Thank you!" He smiles impossibly wide and I can't help but return it, even if its forced.

I ask him to wait a moment before I fetch Nazir. There's no way I can be of any actual help here. I find him in the kitchen and without explaining I coerce him back out to the main room.  
"Can you help us move the Night Mother?" Nazir looks at me as if I just asked him to kiss Arnbjorn. "_What_?" I say impatiently, my urge to sneeze rising dangerously high.  
"I _don't_ like jesters," he says simply but ever so quietly.  
"Oh you've got to be kidding me. Can't you please just do this for me?" I don't know how asking him to do it for me would make things any better, as far as I know he still doesn't like me.  
"When did you even get back-?" I begin pushing him towards the crate but he struggles only mildly. For someone practiced in murdering people just for fun, I sure do seem beyond comfortable pushing him around. Literally.  
"Nazir says he'll help us!" I'm breathless, trying not to cough as I feel more and more light headed. I put a hand to my forehead and find a rapidly increasing temperature. Fantastic.  
Nazir stutters and Cicero watches eagerly, happy for any kind of assistance.  
"I'll be right back," I say suddenly, turning to wipe my nose when no one can see. Ugh this is disgusting. I head towards Lis's room and find Babette watching over her as usual. She greets me warmly, our time together before I went away was always pleasantly spent.  
"Babette, I got a cold in Ivarstead and it's getting worse. Can you help me?" I'm afraid she will think me rude for skipping pleasantries but I can see she knows I mean no disrespect.

Before long she has me taking some potion remedies, a wash cloth wrapped around my head. My nose is still running and my head still rushing for the time being but I thank her and hurry back out to find Nazir and Cicero already removing the Night Mother from inside her crate. Her coffin emerges and it's quite the sight to behold; large and made entirely of iron, many intricate markings engraved symmetrically across the circular tomb from top to bottom. The very top of the coffin is adorned with Sithis's skeletal figurehead. When I tear my eyes from the coffin I notice Cicero and Nazir passing mistrusting looks when they think the other is unaware. Great teamwork guys. I scoff and approach them, forgetting how ridiculous I must look with this rag tied around my head. I can see without the crate weighing her down the Night Mother is infinitely lighter already.  
"Thanks Nazir we can take it from there," I smile awkwardly as Nazir passes me, glad for the chance to politely excuse himself. The look he gave me was _filthy_. I approach Cicero who is meticulously analyzing every single inch of the coffin, clearly checking for travel damage.  
"Is everything in order?" I ask, placing my hands on my hips. I silently thank Babette for this fast acting treatment. She said the cold will pass at the normal rate but she can at least reduce my symptoms.  
"Yes, everything seems to be just fine!" He turns to face me finally and then suddenly doubles over laughing. Oh,_ this_ again.  
"Uh. What?" I ask defensively, immediately reminded of the cold wrap around my head. I can feel the blush spreading across my face and up to my ears which only furthers my embarrassment. "Shut up! I have a cold, okay?"  
When he regains some form of control over himself I can hear him splutter something between his cackling. "I do hope your fighting skills aren't as weak as you are!"  
"Getting a cold is not weakness!" Insufferable. I've helped him two times now and this is how he repays me _again_? I'm quickly remembering why I was eventually pleased to see him go.  
He walks toward me awkwardly, obviously squeezing in a stitch in his side. "I jest, I jest, sister!" Finally he stands upright again and he apologises. In his own funny sort of way.  
"How do me move this?" I question finally, fighting away a verging headache.  
He instructs me to take the bottom end and slowly, gently push the coffin over backwards while he guides it down. Simple enough. I follow his orders and we carry it up to the chapel through the nearest entrance. The path is narrow but somehow we manage it. As I watch Cicero begin to set up her shine, surrounding her in candles and various species of toxic flowers I take this chance to ask him more questions before I head off to bed. I notice his immense concentration, the seemingly permanent air of garishness suddenly completely gone, even after I ask my question.  
"What exactly does being Keeper entail?"  
Without looking away from the candle he is lighting he replies simply, his answer surprisingly concise. "Oh, Cicero takes care of our Lady's body. Oils it, preserves it, keeps it safe. Makes sure nobody disrespects our Matron's coffin."  
I take a seat behind him on one of the few unbroken benches and watch him work in silence for a time. I can see his brow furrowed in deep concentration, his hands working steadily as if he'd done this thousands of times. I admire his dedication, certainly, but there's something so peculiar about him. Something that stirs memories in the furthest reaches of my mind. I don't know whether to leave them at bay or fight to dig them up and learn the truth about myself that was so abhorrent I saw the need to become a vampire. I realise my mind is wandering into uncomfortable waters and so I ask another question, one I already know, simply to hear his version and to distract myself.  
"So, can you tell me who the Night Mother is?" at this he turns, frowning.  
"What? _Who is the Night Mother_? Oh! Oh, you jest! You jest with gullible Cicero! You of course know that the Night Mother is our Unholy Matron. The undying spirit of a great woman who birthed the children of Sithis. And killed them. In his honor." He laughs darkly.  
"You're right, I was joking," I say absently as I survey the room, trying to think of more useless questions to ask while I had my chance. I was never one for the concept of permanence, and Cicero was no exception. Even my immortal kin would often leave only never to return to us. I don't imagine Cicero will last long here if people don't begin to accept him quickly, but how could they? Any normal person would find him entirely objectionable.  
"Cicero."  
"Mmmm?" He's turned away again, placing flowers very carefully around the foot of the iron tomb. I stand and head towards the doors.  
"Watch out for yourself," I speak over my shoulder, my words are by no means a threat and I am sure to convey this to him so clearly that even a _madman_ would know how entirely pure my intentions are. He does not reply but rather watches me leave in silence before I close the chapel doors behind me.


	7. Chapter 7

_Months had passed since their last encounter and they'd met on several occasions, often only to fight or in secret to stare each other down, each wanting the opposite end. Cicero faced inhumane nightmares at home but was too proud to admit it while Leivah faced the entirety of Cryodiil alone with the Dark Brotherhood breathing down her back._

_When Cicero stepped away from the Brotherhood for a few moments, just to breathe, he knew he wanted to be more than just an initiate. He needed to step up and finish the job but when he met her in the early weeks of 4E 183 he realized there was a reason why he had such a hard time performing his one and only mission. The reason he had endured years of punishment, years of ridicule and exclusion. Something about Leivah, the way she conducted herself, the way she used his weakness against him. The way she could remain hidden for months and then show up out of no where, asking to just talk. Something about the way he knows she could win this fight. Something about the way she didn't.  
He knew he liked her.  
A small clearance in the trees, her usual camp set up with a low burning fire. The girl sits calmly, shrouded in a numerous amount of cloaks as she shivers in the cold.  
"Alone as always," Cicero says, stepping from the shadows. Leivah turns slowly to look up at him. His weapon is sheathed tonight.  
"As always," she agrees solemnly. They've done this so many times now. Met by the moonlight and talked by the fire, each time the will to live climbs higher and higher. She likes this sad boy, but she curses him for not taking the chance she gave him. To walk away and live. Sure, any person could see him breathing now, talking and walking like anyone else but she knows he chose to die the second he returned to the Brotherhood the night she poisoned him. He chose to crawl back home, to obey rather than lead. Perhaps he really is just as shallow as that. A mere soldier. _

_"You know, I've always wondered why you ended up with that vampire," Cicero says as he sits down next to Leivah. They're both uneasy, this performance redone over and over but neither were willing to feel anything akin to comfort just yet, even when meeting on semi friendly terms.  
Leivah thinks for a moment. Why should she tell him anything? Why shouldn't she?  
"His clan raided some ruins I spent most my life being trapped in with my family and a group of others. I was only 4 at the time," she pauses to draw circles in the dirt, a habit her itching hands had always compelled her to do when speaking idly. "Everyone was killed except for me."  
"Why you?" Cicero leans back and stretches out his legs, his arms holding him upright as he watches her fingers work the ground in slow, steady patterns. Her brow is furrowed and he can see the wave of conflicting emotions flicker across her face in the dancing, orange light.  
"I've been asking myself that question for nearly 10 years," she sighs and puts her hands back under her cloaks, the cold finally getting to her.  
They fall silent and Leivah begins to shake, pulling her cloaks in closer.  
"How are you not freezing to death?" she asks suddenly as if accusing him of something.  
"I'm just not pathetic like you," he laughs when she pouts and covers her face, still shivering. He stands and she jumps in response, her knife drawn. He reaches for his as well until they realize there's no danger. Just mistrust. "Jeez, I was just getting some fire wood for your shitty fire," Cicero mumbles harshly as she puts her knife away. Leivah breathes a heavy sigh and rubs her face, her hands shaking for entirely new reasons._

_"You know, things wouldn't be this way if you just took the chance I gave you," she says bitterly, watching the dying fire intensely as Cicero walks around the limits of the clearing.  
"Chance?" He replies, bemused as he picks up another stick.  
"Yes. The chance I gave you when I let you live, you dumbass," she grumbles, also deciding to stand. Drawing circles in the dirt won't ease her sudden unrest.  
"What chance didn't I take?" Cicero thinks back to that night he knows she speaks of and the events that followed, the humor in his voice dropping sharply as he recalls how bad things got by morning. He stops looking for more wood, his arms almost full with them. He walks back to the fire and finds her standing, too. He dumps the sticks in the fire and waits impatiently for her reply.  
"I let you live so you could choose."  
He balls his fists, obviously outraged.  
"Choose? Choose what?! What else is there for me here? _There is nothing else_," his words are harsh, blunt and defensive. He knows what she meant. All their conversations led here. A few playful words, a light conversation until Leivah breaks the brief moments of pleasantry they had. She breaks them and leaves them shattered on the ground.  
"You could choose me," Leivah says quietly, looking up to meet his fierce gaze. His expression falls and he's left with his mouth agape, his mind blank.  
He could choose her. He really could. They could leave Cryodiil and run. They could run forever. But they can't. _He_ can't.  
_

_Her eyes are wide, waiting for him to speak. She felt so exposed, so vulnerable. With the whole world against her, a bounty on her head in every city, permanently on the run from the most determined clan of organised assassins across all of Tamriel, she had no one else to talk to. She had no one else who understood what living her life was like. No one except Cicero. The sad boy who was responsible for every second she was alone, for every life she was forced to take just to survive. And he was also the source of the only happiness she'd ever truly known. Over the last few months, they had met like this several times for quiet conversations whispered in the trees by twilight. They decided that when he was not on business by order of the Brotherhood they could talk. It was a strange agreement, they knew, but what else are two lonely kids supposed to do when no one else will listen?  
"You of all people know I want that. But you should also know that I can't," He finally speaks before stepping closer to her, his voice strained. She wants to step back, he can see it in her eyes.  
"I know." Her words are now barely above ushered breaths as he steps closer again. Her face has fallen and her arms lay limp at her sides. "But you should know something, Cicero."  
He puts his hands on either side of her arms, his shaking body beginning to betray his forced attitude of nonchalance.  
"What?" he whispers, the low flames finally catching to the sticks, sending new flashes of bright yellow across the kids as they stand face to face.  
"You threw away my chance as well," her head falls and is claimed by shadow as she begins to cry._

* * *

It's early morning when I arise still sick. I groan internally, conscious of the other sleeping people around me. I sit up, my head stuffy but my nose thankfully not running anymore.  
I pull the blankets around me and stand, covering myself tightly as a sharp shiver rips through my body when my bare feet come into contact with the cold slate floor. I move down to the kitchen, yawning as I look for something to drink. I find a bottle of glassed water sitting on the far bench and take it. I pour a fair amount into a clean tankard at the table and take a seat, drinking deeply.

My mind gets caught adrift and I'm suddenly thinking peculiar things, tracing odd patterns on the table near my tankard while the other props up my head. The sanctuary is dead quiet but I swear I can still hear Cicero's distant humming as he works at the shrine.  
The shrine.  
I'm suddenly roused by a strong curiosity to inspect the shrine. Perhaps Cicero has finally opened the sarcophagus? I drain my cup and leave it on the table before heading back towards the bedrooms. I pass through silently and find myself in the room that splits off to the chapel or the half caved in chamber which I assume will now be Cicero's what with it being closest to the Night Mother. I slowly push on a chapel door until I can squeeze through, hoping to not wake anyone at such an early hour.  
I find that coffin still closed and the candles still burning brightly from their candelabras. The room smells different now; somehow a twinge of sweetness has melding with the dusty air. I take a seat on one of the benches, now rearranged into a more orderly fashion, the broken ones removed from the room.  
I examine the shrine closely, taking in every small detail as I bring in the blankets closer around me.

"He really seems to enjoy his work..." I utter in mild amusement as I watch the tiny streams of smoke rising from the candle flames in twirling coils.  
"Oh yes, he certainly does!"  
I turn on the bench, startled to find Cicero peering in from behind one of the chapel doors, an amused expression on his face. I scowl as a sudden headache hits me, the shock clearly not agreeing with my fragile senses right now.  
"Why'd you do that?" I hiss, clasping my blankets and bringing them up higher around my neck defensively. I'm sure I look stupid again. He giggles childishly and steps into the room, springing on his heels.  
"Coming to visit the Night Mother are we?" he asks as a devilish grins creeps across his face. He comes to stand near me and I refuse to look at him.  
"It's none of your business," I shoot back, scrambling to recover for being so easily frightened.  
"It is if it's to do with our Mother, hmmm?" he reasons before sitting down next to me. I can_ feel_ him staring at me, perhaps waiting for me to strike out again. I sigh and rub my temples.  
"I just came in to see if you'd opened the coffin yet," I say, exasperated and suddenly tired again.  
"_Open it_? Whatever for, sister?" Each word is drawn out much too long and I try not to scoff. Why? Why not?  
"I just assumed that would be what you would do?" Why _did_ I assume that? It is, after all, a tomb. He shifts his weight and tilts his head down, obviously thinking hard about something.

"Why are you awake?" I ask when I realized he wasn't going to talk any more about the Night Mother. It seemed he got a little strange when it came to Her. Well, more strange than usual.  
"Cicero could ask you the same question!" He's suddenly perked up again as if nothing personally uncomfortable for him was said, although his reply still doesn't answer anything. He seems to be a master in the art of backwards conversations and upside down questioning. Impossible.  
"I asked you first," I retort, beginning to smile. He's so insufferable but I can't help but like him. Just a little bit. Cicero laughs but decides he's lost.  
"I was watching the Night Mother," he says simply, lacing his fingers together in his lap.  
"But you have to sleep sometime, right?" He surely can't go too long without sleeping. It'd be unhealthy.  
He looks to me and smiles broadly. "Sometime, yes." I want to stand but I feel like that'd be rude, the intensity of his stare a little too intense. When we fall quiet the silence begins to scream, our eye contact lasting far too long. I blink several times and clear my throat but he does not look away. I don't know what to do with myself besides sit there, trying to look like I'm not noticing.  
"So uh.. you came from Cryodiil? What was living there like?" I say quickly, taking any chance to break the silence.  
"Yes, yes! It was such a long, _long_ journey but we finally made it, safe and sound!" He begins cheerily but again his voice drops. He definitely seems emotionally unstable but I'm yet to find anything else wrong with him. I'm still at such a loss to everyone's complete and utter disregard for him as a person. "But... over time Cryodiil became quite-... _unlivable_ for the Night Mother," he chuckles when he says the word 'unlivable' but every other word is flat, humorless.  
"I don't know much about Cyrodiil, which is funny considering I lived there for at least 15 years," I sigh, raising my blankets to make a hood over my head. Cicero begins to laugh again but I don't react with scorn. I think I'm starting to just see it as part of his personality and less of a personal offense.  
"That's a long time to live with your head in the sand!" I guess he's right. But I didn't have much other choice. Is... is he even aware of that yet? He must be! I bite my lip, thinking hard.

I don't know why this subject is so sensitive for me. I have spent many years in deep contemplation regarding why I don't like telling people I'm a vampire. For me personally I know why I did it. I did it for an entirely unconventional reason, so there's no way anyone could ever guess _why _ I chose to become this, but... I know. I know why and it makes me feel weak. It makes me feel disgusting to know that there was a time I was so powerless, so desperate for an escape that I agreed to give up my life and live as a hated being. Something filthy. I have a hard time thinking about myself as something so pathetic. And why should I even explain it? It's not like he asked for an explanation. Why should I tell him anything? Why shouldn't I?  
"Living in a crypt with a large number of other vampires will do that to a person," I say, trying to sound off handed.  
"_Other_ vampires? Ooh hohoh! Does that mean sweet Leivah is a vampire, too?" his voice is suddenly extremely high when he leans in close, his eyes narrowed and I can't help but admire the amber colours that seem to solidify and liquidize simultaneously as he watches me intently.  
"I assumed you knew?" I manage to stutter, feeling a hot blush begin to creep across my cheeks. _Oh no. _The sensation is spreading and I can feel it on the ridges of my ears. His breath is on my face and I can't look away from his stare. He's barely inches from me and I don't know what to do- I don't know what _he's_ trying to do-  
He pulls back, smiling broadly and shaking his head, the double ends of his cap bouncing around in time with his movements. I suddenly realise I've been holding my breath and I exhale sharply.  
"No! Cicero had no idea!" He clasps his hands together, his eyes shut as he grins at me. Beneath his eyes I can see dark circles and I am reminded that he probably needs to sleep. And besides that, I think I need a moment to recover from that intense moment he forced me into. I stand, feigning a yawn, my blankets still hooded over my head. He remains seated and goes silent, still.  
"We should probably head back to bed," I say as I begin to shuffle towards the chapel doors. I can hear Cicero stand from the bench, now behind me and I assume he's taking my advice.  
"Before you go-.. Could I. Could I see them?" He asks, still smirking at me as he makes a ridiculous gesture with his hands in an attempt to convey his meaning. My fangs. He want's to see my fangs?  
"You.. What? My teeth?" I question, bewildered. He nods furiously as an expression of mock seriousness sets on his face. I walk back to where he's standing and open my mouth, lifting my top lip to reveal my teeth. This is so incredibly strange. Again I can feel the blush starting to spread. He leans in again, but not at close as before, examining my fangs with great interest. After a moment I close my mouth and he stands quiet for a moment before asking me another odd question.  
"How many people have had the pleasure of meeting those lovely ivories on less... _agreeable_ circumstances?" His voice is hoarse and completely out of his norm. His speech is oddly eloquent and I don't know how to respond. One moment he's making jokes and the next he's almost... _intimidating_.  
"Too many," I answer in a whisper.  
"_Oh_, I doubt that _very_ much."

* * *

_"Is that the best you've got?" he hisses, the clank of metal rings __viciously through the brisk night air. __A side step, a back lash, a stab, a cut, a gasp. Blood litters the ground in specks as they dance.  
"No," she cries, lifting her left hand as a smirk comes to rest on her face. He knows what that means. Play time is over and things are becoming heated. Scratches and cuts are childsplay no matter how deep. Daggers won't do much in an open battle. Knives are for cutting, for severing, for quick and clean precision. Her hand begins to quake and the familiar sparks of white lightening revolve around curling fingers. They come to a stand still; his weakness, his flaw. His eyes grow wide and the blood begins to seep more quickly from open his gashes. His hands clench and Leivah knows that look. She's been there before. She has those vices. _

_"Walk away now, Cicero," Leivah's voice is calm, even. Her heart is pounding and her ears are ringing, there is no joy in her smile but it's an effective mask to hide her bitterness. She watches him closely, poised for action as the lightening grows stronger. He's paralyzed. His knuckles white as he grips tightly to the dagger. Struck by fear. This is no fun. This will not be the show they know the Brotherhood is expecting. She ceases casting the lightening spell and replaces it with flame. She can almost instantly see the recovery in Cicero, his eyes now focusing on her again. She knows she plays too kindly with him. She knows she could end this at any moment. She knows she's better than him. She knows that doesn't matter.  
Nothing matters but this boy. This stupid boy and his safety. He lunges forward with a wild stab and Leivah notes his poor technique. He may be capable with stealth but his open battle skills are reckless and predictable. If she were anyone else he wouldn't be breathing.  
She ducks and dives, barely attempting to land any hits, the ones she already made beginning to cause him some obvious distress. He's lost a fair bit of blood, the colour still draining from his face.  
'_They're watching_', she thinks, her eyes flicking from him to the shadows where she can feel the hostile glare of another Brotherhood member, no doubt here assessing Cicero's behaviour. He follows the direction of her darting glances but it does no good. He appears to be spent.  
He falls to his knees, submissive and no doubt expecting a knife to his throat. Leivah does not disappoint.  
He tilts his head back as a gloved hand takes a fistful of hair and pulls it roughly, the metal pressing uncomfortably against his throat.  
"Just do it," he says, breathing heavily as he drops his knife and puts his hands on his largest wound. "Just fucking kill me, Leivah." This time she can hear a tone of begging. A twinge in her heart, his breathing beginning to grow more difficult. There is nothing she can do to help him here, not while being watched. She knows how this game is played, and she knows that she cannot win. No matter what she does this kid will end up suffering because of her. She looks at him, her despair taking form in anger. Her fist grows tighter and she shakes him, the other hand pressing so hard it draws a slight amount of blood. He inhales sharply but does not object. He really means it this time. She almost wants to. To just flick her wrist back and watch him die. Every problem she's ever had would evaporate. But there's no way she could do it. No way she could live knowing she would be entirely alone._

_There's a rustling in the trees and their moment has expired. She withdraws her knife and puts a boot to his chest and pushes harshly, sending him crashing into the dirt. He lays there, looking at her with accusing eyes. She knows why. She knows everything about the lonely initiate boy.  
"I hate you," he says, blood still oozing from his wounds.  
"I'm so sorry," she whispers, her agony finally replacing her rage. She wishes more than anything to give him peace, but death is something she cannot afford.  
She backs away slowly, praying for him to stand, to run, to join her at long last. But he lays there, defeated and filthy and she curses every second she knows shes about to spend alone again. Alone because of him._

_Leaves and branches whip her face, grass stains smearing, seeping into cloth as she sprints without pause through the trees. A familiar, hot feeling is beginning to irritate her eyes and there's no hope of ignoring it. She left him back there, disgraced and defeated by a girl 5 years younger than him. He's going to be punished without mercy and she knows it's all her fault. Everything he's been through is all her fault. Each and every single scar, memory, bruise and blister is her doing. The guilt is tearing her apart from the inside out and she suddenly can't breathe, can't see. Her lungs are collapsing and the world is black. She falls and begins to shake, her body refusing to move, feel, obey. Her hands are reaching, grabbing for things that aren't there, her chest is caving and her bones are screaming. The feeling of acid fills every part of her, burning white hot, melting as she lay gasping and screaming silently to no one in particular until it is no longer silent but defeaning. Her head is exploding and her hands are clutching at her own ribs, scratching, clawing. She cannot cry, the tears won't come and all she can do is wait. Wait for every muscle and joint to wear itself out. All she can do is wait for the silence. Wait for release._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_"You've really fucked up this time, Initiate." A harsh voice, a harsh kick in the ribs and Cicero is turned face down into the dirt, heaving. The world is spinning and the hammering of his heart begins to subside. He can see the cloaked face of his supervisor as he grabs him roughly by the collar in disgust. Cicero is dragged from the clearing, in the opposite direction Leivah had just run._

_Leivah._

_Bitterness is the single thing his fading consciousness retains, but not for her. As much as he needed her to die, for her to know his suffering, he needed her more. He could never blame her truly for what happens to him when his brothers and sisters go to rest. For what will happen to him tonight. And every night he fails. The feeling of astringency intensifies at the realization of his own weakness. He could end everything so easily, in so many different ways but there is a hunger so strong for Leivah that goes beyond the need to ruin her. _  
_Cicero can feel the dull, pleasant sensation of a healing spell and as it grows stronger, as do his feeling of dejection. He really could just run with her. He could just leave everything behind. _  
_Another kick in the ribs when the healing spell is over and Cicero has not yet moved._  
_"Get up!" And another. "Assimo is expecting good news. Not that I understand why with a louse of an assassin like you," he sniggers and turns to leave the clearing. Cicero still does not move but rather lets the thousands of thoughts run through his mind, over and over and over. He could. But he mustn't. Why not?_

_Assimo._

_The fire builds and then is doused in water at the thought of his name. He cannot escape that name. He cannot let go of the humiliation and the torture. The endless hours of abhorrent beatings, the agony. Leivah's death is the only thing that could ever bring him peace. Nothing will pain him more than seeing her dead. Nothing else but seeing her live. _  
_The screaming starts and he can hear her. The supervising assassin is no longer present but he knows she will be safe from him. No one but himself is allowed to harm her. That is his curse alone.  
He stands up, looking in the direction of the sound. It is pained. The world vanishes and all he can hear is her. Without being aware of it his legs have begun to move and he's running. Sprinting with everything he has to reach her. To know she's okay. _


	8. Chapter 8

"Good morning, good morning, _good morning_, sister!" I wake with a start to find Cicero shaking me.  
"What! What's wrong?" I sit upright quickly, preparing myself for bad news.  
"Nothing's wrong! Nothing at all!" He's smiling broadly and my worries ease away as he sits on my bed. The room is empty apart from us.  
"What time is it?" I ask, yawning loudly. Maybe I should stop staying up so late...  
"Midday, dear sister! Cicero was beginning to think you'd fallen into a coma!" he giggles and hands me a wash cloth. I take it, surprised at his offer. A wash cloth? Why would he bring me a washcloth... ah. I'm sick. Or rather, was. A good night's rest and an interesting early morning chat in the chapel seems to have allowed the worst of it to pass, even if my nose was still badly blocked up. But regardless still I put the wash cloth across my forehead and thank him, trying not to over do it despite my honest appreciation. He seems beyond happy at my polite reaction.

"How are you fitting in today?" I ask, taking the covers off my legs. Cicero doesn't look like he's ready to stand, or give me an honest answer. His response is delayed and his speech falters.  
"Oh, just _fine_-... fine! Things here are quite... _different_ from Cheydinhal but perhaps it could still become a home for us yet!"  
"Didn't Cheydinhal fall like... 10 years ago or something?" I ask offhandedly, fiddling with the damp wash cloth as it begins to slide down my face. "I've been doing a lot of research since leaving Cyrodiil to find the brotherhood and I-"  
"_Find_ the Brotherhood? Whatever for? No one ever goes _looking_ for the Brotherhood, no no! They _summon_ us!" Cicero interrupts, completely confused by my motives... Not that I'd blame him. They hardly make sense to even me.  
"I.. I didn't have a contract or anything," I begin to say, choosing my words incredibly carefully. I don't want to get into this right now. It's too personal.  
"Then what business did you have to go searching on your own" he asks another question and I still don't want to talk about it. Perhaps I could use his own roundabout conversation methods against him.  
"How about you tell me what took you so long to get here after I fixed your wheel instead, huh?" I question, jeering slightly in my own contorted sense of success.  
His smile drops and he stares at me, squinting.  
"I don't want to say," he huffs bluntly. So it was that simple? Just draw the line? I'll have to keep that in mind next time he breaches my boundaries. Not that I expect him to so willingly agree when the roles are reversed.  
"Fine. So! Whats our plan for today?" I perk up, trying to keep things rolling. His smile returns almost instantly and he leans in a little bit.  
"_Our_ plan?" he laughs and stands up, offering me his gloved hand. I take it and also stand, my suspicions falling away when he leads me towards the dining room. "_Our_ plans are to get you fit for more contracts, dear sister!" Contracts. Wonderful. I suddenly remember have a job to do to earn my place here, to earn my keep. I sigh as we descend the stairs into the dining room and find Nazir in his usual place at the table. He looks up for half a moment at the commotion only to glare between us in mild discomfort. When Cicero sits me down he busies himself over the cooking pot. I return Nazir's stare until he scoffs and leaves the room. Jester's really make him that uncomfortable huh? I snigger under my breath before Cicero places a saucer of red liquid in front of me. At first I'm a little confused.  
"I can't eat soup. I can't _eat_," I say, eyeing him quizzically.  
"Oohohoh, but whoever said it was soup?" he replies slyly, folding his arms.

I look closer at the substance in my bowl and sure enough not soup at all. It's blood, fresh and tantalizing. If only my nose hadn't been blocked.  
"How did you get this?" Do I even want to know? Do I even need to ask? "More importantly, _why_ did you get this?" I raise an eyebrow, entirely at a loss for words.  
"Well, Cicero thought it'd be a way of thanks for all you've done," he laughs brightly and I honestly don't know what to say. I've never been good with words but this damn jester takes it to a whole new level. His generosity is so unlike what I would ever have expected from a member of the Dark Brotherhood. But then again, he's not like anyone else.  
"Why did you become a jester?" I say suddenly, without warning. He's a Brotherhood member. He could be anyone he wanted in the blink of an eye. Or is he really just an insane serial murderer with an affinity for bad puns and gaudy outfits? There is no way he could just be that. There is too much about the way he knows how to avoid my questions. About the way he leaves me speechless without even knowing what he's doing. Or perhaps he does know. I doubt I'll ever find out, and I doubt even more that I even want to find out.  
"_Why_ is poor Cicero a jester? That is a question I have not thought about in a long time," he says thoughtfully as if trying to recall a time when he knew. His brow furrows and I can see he's actually trying hard to think, or trying hard to look that way. I pick up the bowl and place the edge to my lips and drink. The temperature is cool and the texture is beginning to thicken. Disgusting but evidently necessary. I can feel an almost instant uplift in my body despite the general unpleasant after taste. Cold blood. Not a good idea to repeat this in the future. I drain the bowl and still Cicero is thinking. The clunk of the bowl on the table seems to bring him back and he blinks several times.  
"That hard a question?" I joke, offering him a seat next to me on the bench.  
"Yes.. Yes it is!" he takes his seat and notices I've emptied the bowl. "Does Leivah feel better now?"  
"Much," I offer a smile and he responds with obvious joy.

We sit in a comfortable silence for a moment while I think contentedly about his kind deed. Perhaps his kindness was out of loneliness... I know how that feels. To be so desperate for someone to acknowledge you you'll go well out of your way to achieve it. I'm abruptly aware that Nazir's attitude could be shared by everyone here. "How have the others been treating you?" This time it's me who leans in a little too closely. I am compelled to know that he is not shunned because he's a little different. He's still a Brotherhood member, the highest ranking among us all. But aside from that, aside from the respect, I want him to know he's not alone here.  
"Ohh, everyone has treated Cicero just as he expected!" he chirps.  
"That still doesn't answer my question," I grumble, leaning back again.  
"Cicero wonders, dear sister, why you are so interested in the others' behavior towards him?" he tilts his head in mock confusion. Blast. My unjust concern has been noticed. I feel myself internally reeling, reaching for some kind of way to drag myself out of the room to avoid his question.  
"I want to make sure they're following the tenants," I say quickly although he's sure to know there's no tenant against not liking each other. Damn my unbridled need to use defensive counters as my last resort.  
Cicero laughs outrageously loudly and I frown. He can see right through me, I just _know_ it.  
"I think sweet Leivah cares about poor, lonely Cicero," he giggles and I fold my arms across my chest, pointedly looking down into the scarlet stained bowl.  
"No I don't I just-... I think it's unfair. I think it's shit how people treat you just because you act a little differently," I refuse to look at him, scared of what I might find. "I just think you deserve better treatment, especially from your brothers and sisters. You should be allowed to feel at home _somewhere_."  
He doesn't respond at first and I am incredibly uncomfortable. I stand and walk out of the dining room, leaving Cicero alone as I begin to feel intense nausea.

* * *

_"You know you should stop running away like that," he scowls, when she finally falls silent. His ears are ringing and she is filthy, scraped and bloodied. Her cheeks are flushed a violent shade of red as she sits up, revealing her face for the first time since he doubled back to find her screaming in the dirt.  
She responds slowly, her arms wrapped around her legs, shaking and weak.  
"Why? So I can get your worthless hide into even more trouble?" She's breathless and he offers her his hand.  
"I can handle my own business thank you very much," he quips, grinning. She notices how humourless he is despite this facade. He notices how exhausted she is. "What happened here?"  
"I don't want to talk about it." Blunt. Emotionless, but entirely giving herself away. Cicero's false smile falters as she takes her hand from his to brush herself off.  
"Why not? What happened, Leivah?" His voice is stern, slightly concerned; he's never seen the wind knocked out of her like this.  
"Drop it, Cicero," her tone is a warning but he ignores it. Something tells him this is extremely important.  
"You cut me up, leave me to bleed out and then have a break down in the woods and when I come to collect your defective pieces you leave me out? You owe me an explanation," his words are heated and he grabs her by the shoulders, forcing her to look at him directly.  
"I didn't leave you for dead! I had no choice! No matter what I do it's always my fault you get hurt and there's never anything I can do for you but watch and-" she stops. She's gone too far and gave him his answer.  
"... And?" he asks, quietly. Calmly. He needs to know.  
"And... And I'd give anything to change that. To make it all go away for you." Before she knows whats happening his arms are around her, pulling her in close. Her first reaction is to push him away, to yell profanities but instead she reaches around and clutches onto his clothes, burying her face in his chest, still shaking.  
"Why were you screaming." His question is more an order than inquiry.  
"I don't want to lose you." Finally after seemingly endless minutes of screaming into the ground she manages to cry. Leivah's body begins to quake in heaving sobs as she claws to get closer to him. The words hit Cicero like an arrow in the chest when he finally hears that she feels the same way. All their fighting, their arguments. Every aspect was so important yet neither of them wanted anything more than to be like this forever. Simply embracing, hoping to the gods that everything will always turn out okay. But this is not their reality. Their reality is cold and cruel and they know they cannot stay here._

_They fall together to their knees in the dirt, Leivah beginning to hyperventilate.  
"There's nothing we can do," he ushers, resting his forehead against hers. She stops crying long enough to scream at him.  
"There's everything you can do, you absolute _fuckwit_! This is all. Your. Fault!" she hits him in the chest with what little energy remains and he accepts it with no objection.  
"Don't you think I already know that?!" Hot, angry tears begin to well in his own eyes and he's suddenly disgusted with himself.  
Only he can end this, one way or another and both are entirely __unappealing for radically different reasons, but nothing will change the ultimate fact that there was no escaping Assimo's shadow. Not now, not ever. But there was also the undeniable truth that he'd completely and honestly fallen for the sad Bosmer girl he's spent his entire Brotherhood career perusing. Fallen for the way she smiles nervously around him, the way he's always known she's cared for him no matter how dangerous his blood lust became. Fallen for the one person who could ever truly return his feelings of ambivalence.  
_

_He'd fallen for Leivah._

* * *

What is he playing at, acting coy one second and then entirely pompous and self righteous the next! I'm pacing outside the Brotherhood opening near the pool, now dressed in full armor. I need to travel to Markarth but not like this. I'm far too unfocused.  
"Breathe Leivah, breathe," I begin a mindless chant to calm myself. What is going on here? I've always known who I am in this life, always, and I am not someone who believe's that sharing is caring. Disgusting. I can feel a strong wave of self loathing wash over me as I stop pacing and let myself collapse internally. Why him? Why do I suddenly care about someone? Why him, of all the people I've met across Tamriel, _why Cicero_? Why not one of my kin I lived with for 15 years? Surely if I'd loved someone before my transition I wouldn't have needed to change at all! So why now? I crouch down and curl into myself while balancing on the balls of my feet.  
"Gods no, no, no, no," I mumble, knowing somewhere in my mind this is an over reaction- but... then again perhaps its not. For 15 years I've been entirely alone and now this_ jester_ walks in and demolishes everything I thought I knew about myself? Its ludicrous! Enough to make any one freak out, even if only a little bit.

I don't know how much time passes but something draws me from my stupor.  
"You feeling okay, Leivah?" The sudden voice causes me to flinch as if someone had struck me. In a daze I look up to find Babette a short distance from me, sitting on the ground in the heavy shade of the trees. I gawk momentarily and ask her to repeat what she said.  
"Are you alright? Cicero asked me to come check on you?" Her eyes are searching me for any sign as to what might be wrong. I don't even know what's wrong.  
"Y-yeah. I'm fine, Babette... Thank you," my voice stammers and I clear my throat, aware now that the sun is starting to make its dramatic decent behind the horizon. I've been here for hours... "How.. How long have you been sitting there?" I ask tentatively, fearing the possibility of being watched the entire time, knowing I was aggressively mumbling to myself.  
"Long enough to know you're seriously freaked out by something Cicero said to you... Not that it's any of my business of course," she brushes off any possibility of her personal interest with obvious sincerity. I groan and stand up properly, my body cramped and half crippled after hours of crouching. "Although it did seem as though you were in a trance... Is there any chance you triggered this with a potion or a spell?" Babette asks, her blunt alchemy curiosity and return to normal conversation seems to help calm my embarrassment. I rub the back of my neck bashfully and offer my hand to help her stand up.  
"No, sorry. I'm no alchemist," I offer a smile and Babette thinks for a moment.  
"You're leaving then? For the contract in Markarth?" No doubt Astrid's informed everyone by now.  
"Yes, actually. Kind of excited," I force an enthused grin, trying to leave the personal feelings of exposure behind. I'm so exhausted already. What a strange ride today has been.  
"Well, I'm going back inside, Cicero will be happy to know you're okay." She turns to leave and I call her name- a question surfacing in my mind that I need answered.  
"Babette-! Was... Was he out here at any point?" I am standing awkwardly, waiting for my muscles to cooperate with me, each joint straining in protest as I stretch out. She thinks for a moment about what shes going to say, no doubt worried about upsetting me again.  
"For a little while... He left when he considered his presence could be exacerbating things for you," she says in her usual airy tone before opening the Brotherhood door. As it's about to close she pops her head back around the door. "Maybe you should tell him yourself that you're feeling better?" Babette suggests before slipping back around the edge of the door.  
No way. There's no way I can face him right now. I'm still to volatile. I need to get my head straight and nothing else but a long, exhausting trip to Markath seems like it will be good enough. I turn from the Sanctuary door and head towards Falkreath, knowing Cicero will still be worried, and probably hurt that I didn't say goodbye.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Markarth is a filthy city. Every corner is shrouded in darkness, every person hiding untold secrets. Greed, betrayal and blood seem to leak from the very buildings, the rivers grimy from litter and misuse. I am relieved when I can finally bid this abhorrent skeeverhole of a city farewell.  
Sure enough my contact Muiri paid me quite well and gave me her ring as a little extra for the second murder. Alchemy ring, huh? I hold it in my hands as I approach the stables, looking for my horse. When I find her she still seems almost forlorn and unwilling to cooperate. Eventually she accepts it is time to leave again, despite only arriving an hour or so ago. She must be almost as exhausted as I am.

Some time down the road from Markarth I realise I'm still staring at the ring. I slip it onto one finger and can feel the faint, familiar warmth of enchanted metal against my skin. Alchemy... perhaps Babette would appreciate this ring more than I would... I was never one for making potions but several of my clan members in Cyrodiil are. I probably should have learnt something off them after 15 years with nothing to do but the concept never grasped me. I turn my hand and watch the ring, absently thinking about how Babette may respond if I gave it to her. First I imagine happiness but then I consider confusion. Maybe she could be upset that I would give away something she may deem highly valuable... I've never seen Babette upset before. What kind of things would even upset a 300 year old vampire child?  
Probably disloyalty to Astrid... or to be treated like a child by her fellow Brothers and Sisters. Maybe upsetting anyone in our little family... I think Babette wouldn't like that. Upsetting a fellow member...

Suddenly it hits me; the things I had forced myself to forget in order to complete my contract in peace. My little incident at the Sanctuary two weeks ago. Oh bother. Maybe the fact I didn't speak to Cicero again to let him know I was alright could upset her... Babette could be lying for all he knows. I groan loudly and pull my hood down roughly over my face in anguish.  
I've never been one for over thinking emotions. For thinking about other people's emotions. Yet here I am caught between worrying about offending two people by worrying about offending them. This is so ridiculous. I barely even know what's going on anymore. I decide summarizing my situation will be a good way to clear my head.  
Cicero. He's intrusive and loud- my complete opposite, at least on surface level. He doesn't seem to understand the concept of personal space and, if I dwell on that thought for too long, I begin to notice I don't really mind it- at least, not from him. I'm not sure what he's doing but he seems to be crashing through every wall I've ever built in my own emotional defense. It's terrifying me, to be entirely honest. I never anticipated this. Perhaps his unpredictability keeps me on my toes? How I know nothing about him apart from his impersonal duties to the Brotherhood...  
An idea strikes me, sudden and stupid. I don't know a thing about him but... maybe if I observe him carefully from a distance I could find myself on more equal ground with him. Asking directly just results in him effortlessly turning it around and making me reveal more and more about myself before I even realize what's going on.

My horse huffs and veers off the path towards the stream. She takes a long drink and I continue to think, completely absorbed in my own mind, running around and around trying to find ways to remove my emotional exposure. I'm beginning to realize that my opinions of Markarth would seem as appropriate a metaphor for my personality as anything. Secretive- when possible and not being interrogated by a jester. Greedy. A darkened past. I need to put an end to this unbalance, I just wish I knew _how_.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

One hand on the door, the brisk morning air filling my lungs slowly, and then out, repeating in a futile effort to calm my nerves. _Be cold, Leivah. Be stern. No more weakness. _I breath in sharply and press the door open, finding the distant murmurings of my family having breakfast in the far off dining hall. I creep inside and pass through the war room into the big open cavern. I admire the waterfall for a moment, astutely aware of how good it feels to be home, even if I am a little nervous. I move slowly now, relaxed as I head towards my room. I put my things down on the bed and just sit for a moment, listening to the indistinguishable voices. I listen more intensely, searching for Cicero's high pitched tone but I hear just the mundane thrum of casual speech. I wonder if he's gone into town or is getting some sleep. I stand up, feeling relieved that I haven't been discovered yet. As much as I have come to be fond of my family, its nice to just have a moment alone at home. I walk around aimlessly, not really sure of what I want to do. Perhaps I should talk to Astrid. Or maybe not. She's always so exhausting. Do this do that, paranoia paranoia paranoia. I once thought her to be a firm, strong leader but since Cicero's arrival any mention of tradition leaves her shaky and angry as she over compensates to reassert herself as leader. It's embarrassing really.

I leave my room in search of something to do. I wander without aim for a few minutes, taking a moment to dip my hands into the pool in the main room. The water is nice and cold, the gentle splashing of the water incredibly relaxing. Eventually I decide to talk to Babette. I want to get it out of the way, in case it does turn out she's mad at me regardless of how improbable it is. I head towards her room, surprisingly excited to give her my gift despite my apprehensive feelings. I peek around the corner and find her sitting in her usual seat as always, overlooking Lis's pen.  
"You're back then?" She says, turning around with a toothy grin. I return it, happy to see a friendly face for the first time in weeks.  
"Just got in, actually," I reply before entering the room properly. Babette pats the seat next to her and I join, looking down to see Lis eating a goat's corpse. Lovely.  
"How was the contract? I heard this was your first real one?"  
"Yeah, it went smoothly enough. The contact actually wanted me to kill 2 people. The intended target was the leader of a clan so I had to take out more than the agreed 2 people but at least she paid me well for that half," I laugh airily, patting a large coin purse attached to my belt. Babette grins widely, clearly pleased with my success. When it all comes down to it, beneath the discomfort and the uncertainty, I honestly do enjoy living here and working for the Brotherhood. If anyone could ever accept someone like me, its them.  
"And the second target?" Babette questions as her eyebrows raise.  
"Ah, much easier. A woman in Windhelm. The travelling side of things was incredibly difficult but I managed to kill her without much hassle." I fiddle with the ring on my fingers, waiting for the right moment to give it to Babette.  
"Oh, I was wondering what took you so long actually. I know Markarth isn't all that far away from here, but Windhelm... Certainly seems a little underpaid if you ask me. That's a lot of effort," Babette's expression has become serious and I'm grateful for her understanding. I also thought the payment should have been doubled for the second kill but I suppose Muiri's ring will have to do.  
"Ah, that reminds me," I lie, knowing full well my whole reason for coming here was to give her this. "For the second murder my contact paid me with this ring as a bonus." I slip it off my finger and hand it to her. She looks at it with keen eyes, her dainty fingers twisting it idly as she inspects it's condition.  
"Enchanted? Which kind?"  
"Alchemy," I reply with a smirk. Her eyes light up and I know instantly that she would love to have it. "You can keep it, if you'd like. I never had a thing for alchemy so I know you'd put it to better use."  
I can see she's almost tempted to hug me, her arms awkwardly twitching with indecision. Eventually she decides against it, probably worried about my reaction.  
"Honestly? Thank you very much, Leivah," she reasons a simple smile is enough gratitude for now. I nod and stand up again. Feeling much better knowing that Babette isn't mad at me about anything.  
"I'm going to go see Astrid, let her know I'm home. I'll come back later on okay?" I wave briefly and leave the room, leaving Babette to try on her new ring.

I walk out into the main room and find it's still empty. I can't believe they're still having breakfast. The voices from the dining room are much louder, rowdier now that the morning has gotten on a bit. I can now hear actual words here and there, not that I'm paying any kind of attention. I walk to the water fall again and stand, staring thoughtfully into the water. I've cleared things with Babette, maybe I should go check on Cicero as well. I have a feeling that he would not be a very good person to cross. After-all, every person in this Sanctuary is only here because they're skilled killers. I suspect Cicero would be no different even if he does seem a little... _mad_.


	9. Chapter 9

Admittedly I lose track of time while standing in the cavernous room. My mind is filling with nervousness again the more I think about seeing Cicero. The last time we spoke I left in such a hurry after saying what I said. How I regret speaking at all. Still, he deserved to hear what I had to say. He deserves to have a home. My thoughts begin to truly envelope me but are stopped when someone jumps me from behind. I cry out as I'm lifted from the ground and spun around to face the forgery. When my feet hit the ground again I feel myself lose balance only to be caught in Cicero's arms. Of course. Who else?  
"What do you think you're doing?" I hiss over my shoulder as he laughs giddily.  
"_Ohhh_! Cicero is _so glad_ you've come home, dear sister!" I turn around and face him properly, managing to break from his surprise attack.  
"It was just a couple weeks, jeez," I sigh, trying to maintain an air of apathy. I can't let myself slip again in his presence. I need to hold onto a familiar consistency with my emotions or risk being vulnerable. I never want to be vulnerable again.  
"Ah, but you left poor Cicero alone thinking you were upset! Such a _cruel_ thing to do, really!" He fakes a dramatic pout- or at least, I think he's faking and I scoff.  
"I wasn't upset, just-. I was just eager to start my contract-"  
"Oh but surely you know I was with you outside the Sanctuary, hmmm?" He leans in on tiptoes and I stubbornly stand my ground, incredibly self conscious with his face being so close to my own again. As much as I hate this, there's no denying there's something entirely appealing about him to me. His disregard for personal space and how he doesn't seem to care much about how the others treat him. It's either incredibly naive or he's determined to just live his own life without worrying about appearances. Both possibilities seem quite... refreshing in a place of such seriousness, everyone so obsessed with the pitiful notion of _honor_.

The more I talk to him, the less I seem to know. His words contradict and he spins things about, he constantly interrupts me when I talk. There's nothing for it. As much as I enjoy his playfulness, I won't allow myself to be caught off-guard again. "Cicero heard you muttering, oh yes! Muttering _foolish_ things!"  
"And you'd know all about being foolish wouldn't you?" A low blow and I am immediately disgusted with myself. Hypocrisy at its finest. I expect the others to treat him fairly but here I am, turning on him simply out of fear for petty self preservation. But I have no choice. Vulnerability or cruel indifference. I know which seems more appealing to me. He leans back again but his expression remains the same, if not more smug.  
"Oho hohoh! The Fool of Hearts could certainly teach _sweet_ Leivah a thing or two about being foolish!" There's something underhanded about the way he says 'sweet'. I squint my eyes slightly, watching the minute twinges in his face as his emotions run through a tirade of changes. "But that reckless behavior suggests you could teach me as well." The humor drops from his voice while his smile remains, somehow empty.  
"Is that a _threat_?" Oh, how fast things are going downhill.  
"That depends on you, sister," He steps away from me, hands behind his back. The smile is gone now and my feelings of self loathing only rise. He just wanted to greet me in the only way he knows how. Nicely. And I rejected that. He turns to leave and I move forward to grab his arm in frustration- mostly at myself. I can feel his arm tense at my touch, his eyes wide.  
"Look, Cicero-"I don't even know where to begin. His unease is disturbingly intense. How could it be that things can change so suddenly with just a single sentence? I'm reaching for words to express my apology, caution to the wind. The look on his face is not one I know, and not one I ever want to see him wear again. "I really didn't mean what I said... I just. 2 weeks on the road makes me a bit... tetchy and I-" Much to my dismay I hear people filing into the room from behind me. Shit. Cicero is watching me carefully, his arm still tense. I must have really hit a nerve. I can only imagine what everyone must be thinking walking in on this; me griping Cicero while he stares at me like that- like I just drew a knife a on him. Defeated, I say one final thing. "Can I talk to you later today? Maybe tonight?" My grip softens to that my hand isn't holding his arm but merely touching it. His smile returns, clearly not as warm as it once was but definitely a step in the right direction. He thinks for a moment before responding, weighing his options I assume. I offer a real smile, as sweet as I can manage and his gloved hand comes to rest on top of mine.  
"Of course, dear Leivah."

* * *

_"And just where have you been?" a sharp voice drawls from behind Cicero as he enters quietly into the war room of the Bravil Sanctuary. He doesn't respond, he doesn't indicate having even heard his Master. "Your supervisor returned hours ago. So I will ask again. _Where have you been_?" Assimo knows full well where he's been. He's known for quite some time his toy's been attending quite a few trysts with the Bosmer child. What could he possibly hope to gain?  
"I was in town." His reply is short, each word laced with spite. A sly grin slips across Assimo's face as his hand grips Cicero by the shoulder.  
"You'd better watch your tongue, my little pet." When he doesn't respond the smile turns to a frown, anger. His fingers dig sharply into a tendon, making Cicero flinch in pain. A quick reminder of who's in charge here.  
"Don't worry, I know where you've been,"Assimo whispers into his ear, his breath causing Cicero's skin to rise with goosebumps in discomfort.  
"You don't know anything," fear is rising swiftly and he can feel it in his throat. His concern for Leivah causes his hands to ball into shaking fists, his brow tightens into an angry scowl.  
"You're right, you're right. Of course I don't know about your liaisons with the Bosmeri girl. Your contract." A sharp intake of breath gives Assimo an incredible sense of satisfaction. He's hit a nerve. "Perhaps if you misbehave I will be forced to send someone a little... _less inept_ to greet her," his voice is silky, fingers still pressing deeply into pressure points before curling, creeping their way up his neck in careful, calculated strokes. Cicero knows this is no time for games. He knows Assimo will soon grow tired of failure. Failure is too low a quality for even his most despicable of 'pets'.  
"You don't have to send anyone else-! I'm in the middle of something important," the words explode from Cicero, a violently reckless plot forming in his mind. He can feel the fingers around his neck grow tighter; he needs to elaborate and fast. "I know I can't beat her in the field so I figured I would gain her trust- there's no hope of sneaking up on her." The hands loosen their fierce grip just slightly, a twisted chuckle escaping Assimo's lips as they skim across the initiate's neck.  
"Oh, that's cruel, Cicero," the delight in his voice shows obvious interest, but he pry's no further. He steps away, finally giving Cicero his own space. Before he leaves he speaks again, his voice more composed and official. "There will be a gathering in the dining hall. I have news to share."_

_Cicero may have bought himself some time, but that time would run out. As is the time for the Bravil Sanctuary, and everyone here knows it. Assimo stands in front of the few remaining members here, his expression grim.  
__"As you all know, our number's are beginning to deplete to dangerous levels... And it's a result of the violent on-goings in Bravil. Soon, the sanctuary will be breached." A number of gasps escape his rallying brothers and sisters. "Quiet, quiet... There's not much to be done except continue business as usual. Steer clear of any and all riots, do not engage anyone who is not a contract related individual." His words are final but the whispers only grow louder. Cicero stands off to the side, his arms folded. A question strikes him and he raises an arm. "What is it?" Assimo demands, clearly exasperated by everyone's unruly discontent.  
__"Where do we go if the Sanctuary is breached?"  
__Silence falls over the room, each person's eyes darting between Cicero and Assimo, the question seeming to interest them as well.  
__"We stay and defend our home," he says it so simply but that's not good enough an answer. There's barely 20 of them left and he knows numbers outside are only growing larger, angrier.  
__"That's suicide!" one person from the group shouts in protest. A loud humming of agreement fills the room and Assimo's eyes flicker back to Cicero's position, wide with fury. He can feel himself reeling under his master's harsh gaze and looks away, terrified. A mistake. One that will cost him dearly._

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_The bracing winds in Cheydinhal cease when the door slams behind Leivah, announcing her arrival to the few people who linger drunkenly around the Inn. A few stop their murmurings to gawk, to gauge her from a distance as if assessing her worth- in one way or another. The blood and grass stains stand out on her tan coloured armor, giving away signs of a definite struggle. Not that she could be bothered doing anything about it. These people could stare as long as they want, it won't bother her at all. She takes a seat and stares languidly into the fire pit, thinking about what hell Cicero must be facing right now. She has traveled far in a short space of time but by now he surely would be dealing with a true nightmare. Her hands rise and cover her face to stifle a strangled sob. To the confused and still staring onlookers it would have looked like she was coughing, or maybe even laughing. The words are racing and she has no time for these ordinaries, but how she wished they would stop staring at her. She looks back up, fighting the angry tears that are beginning to well in her eyes. She meets several glares with obvious hostility, a silent warning to everyone. All but one person is staring; a bard who is plucking skillfully at the trilling strings while he hums a soft but joyful tune. No one seems to even notice him. An invisible man. _

_The others soon go back to what they were doing, the soft voices returning in a pleasant background level, but still to loud for Leivah's liking. Her head is racing and her heart is beating violently in her chest. She can't stop thinking about the suffering, the torment he must be experiencing right now. And it's all her fault. It's always her fault. The room goes into a blur, the voices seeming to seep into her very skin, hounding and biting at her every sense. She can't breathe again, the screaming in her head reaching a peak. **IT'S ALL MY FAULT, IT'S ALL MY FAULT, IT'S ALL MY FAULT**.  
A women's hand on her shoulder brings her back to the surface and the shrieking stops.  
"Are you alright, love?" A young woman floats into view, her expression concerned. The rest of the room by now has remained pointedly unaware to her obvious distress, for which she is silently thankful. Leivah struggles to find her voice before choking out, "A room-"  
Her hands find 10 septims from her pocket and drops them into the maiden's hand before stumbling into the nearest doorway, nauseous. She rests on the bed, half on it, half slumped on the floor, the world seeming to swim before her eyes. She knows she cannot see Cicero again for a while, it's too dangerous now with his constantly being tailed by Brotherhood members. They must have caught on somehow. An indistinct cry escapes her, the futility of her situation so abhorrently clear. She cannot be with him, she cannot stay away from him. Both methods will result in his dismay, his ridicule and continued dismemberment, dehumanization. The riots across Cryodiil are beginning to make settling in one place for too long incredibly difficult. The threat of being found by anyone even slightly unfriendly could be her entire undoing, everything she'd worked for, thrown away and killed for would be meaningless if she was stopped now. But what was the meaning? What was the point of taking endless lives in place of her own? Leivah didn't even know what her life was anymore. On the run from one man and his army of lethal assassins while constantly seeking him out to endanger both their lives for a few brief moments of uneasy closeness. She craved a connection more than anything else in the world and how sad it is that she should find it in Cicero. How sad that he found it in her._

* * *

I pace the dining room, fiddling with my gloves anxiously. The Sanctuary is quiet now, but only just. It's still too early to meet him, or at least that's what I'm telling myself. I've never been one to hide from the inevitable but something about how I left things with Cicero is giving me strong feelings of unease. I've had all day to think about this, about what I'm going to say. I have no idea. I know I want to tell him everything, right from the beginning, or rather, as far back as I can remember clearly instead of blacked out puzzle pieces of a past life. I want to tell him about my years of being alone in the darkness, about seeking out the Brotherhood. I want him to know all that I have to tell and I cannot even begin to fathom why I want that. I want him to know what it feels like to be a husk, living with hardly even knowing yourself. I'm beginning to realize, even if the mere thought is entirely distasteful, I long to have a friend, and that will require me to be more open. The repugnance I feel cannot be put into words but Cicero makes it seem worth it somehow.  
The main room is now empty and I decide its finally time. The irritated mutterings between Astrid and Arnbjorn have died out, giving way to the eerie silence I've come to know within these stone walls. There is something different about the silence here than back in Cryodiil. There was something indefinably empty about the air in that crypt.

My feet feel like lead as I drag them up the makeshift log stairs towards the chapel, my heart beat racing in my throat. I swallow hard and press on until I reach the heavy iron doors. From under the doors I can see the faint glow of red, the sickly sweet smell of deathbell strong even from out here. I push on one door and put my head in to find the room empty. The courage I managed to build sinks down instantly to my stomach in anticlimax; half relief, half terror at the prospect of having to rekindle it. I close the door, thankful for its well oiled hinges, allowing me to still remain undetected. I don't know who I'm hiding from but I feel like the tiniest noise could shatter this entire realm of space and time. I exhale in one long, drawn out breath and turn to head towards Cicero's room. I walk down the passage, carefully placing my feet so as to keep quiet. I crouch, hoping to spy on him even if for only a moment as I come to the corner that opens into his caved-in chamber. Sure enough he's here, bent over the table as he scribbles hastily into a red journal. The same one he had back at Loreius's farm. He mumbles almost inaudibly as his hands trawl across the page in long, swirling letters and I notice the concentration on his face, similar to that when he works on the Night Mother's shrine. He stops suddenly and I slip back behind the corner before he looks up in my direction, snapping the book closed and placing his quill down.  
"There's no need to hide, sister," he trills and I can hear him sit down on the bench at his table. I stand, slightly embarrassed. How did he even know I was there? I walk around and finally enter the room, fighting the persistent blush that continues to creep across my cheeks.  
"I wasn't hiding- as such..." I walk up to him and take a seat on the bench, determined to make things as casual as possible. I need to put my rude words behind us, I had no right to insult him like I did. He's done nothing but be kind to me thus far and I suppose that's why I'm finding it hard to trust him. To let him in.  
"Then what _were_ you doing around that corner, hmmm?" he smiles the same as always, obviously sharing my wish to put this awkwardness in the past. If I'm going to be a better person, if only for this one chance at having a friend, I might as well start now. Time for some honesty.

"I was watching you," I resist the urge to hide my face and instead stare straight ahead at the crumbling wall, knowing full well Cicero's expression is beyond amused. He's just going to ask me why. I know he is. Anyone in his position would want to know why. "I just wanted to see what you get up to in your spare time," it's mostly true. To begin with that's all I wanted but I stayed far longer than I intended to just to observe his deep thought, his focus. Qualities so unlike the persona he demonstrates for everyone else, myself included. Again he easily avoids my questions.  
"Ahhah! Cicero does the same things he always does!" he chuckles innocently, his arms folded on top of his journal, covering it for the most part.  
"What do you write about?" I ask, pointing to the red cover peering out from under his sleeve. He looks at it as if he hadn't noticed it there before and picks it up. Of course its none of my business but my desire to avoid the matter at hand is growing increasingly strong.  
"Notes! Notes about what ingredients to use for the Night Mother's shrine and oils, dear sister." He throws the book behind us onto his immaculately made bed. I raise an eye brow and push him an iota further.  
"I wouldn't mind reading your notes sometime."  
"Ohohoh I'm afraid those... _secrets_ are for only the Keeper to know!"  
"Well, can you tell me how you became Keeper?" I put a small amount of emphasis on the word 'you', and he reacts unexpectedly.  
"You mean how did a _jester_ become Keeper?" Every time the playfulness leaves his voice I feel something akin to fear- to unknowing. I knew we would have to address my less than discrete insult earlier at some point but I had hoped the subject would not be breached like this.  
"No no, not like that. I meant... There's obviously been a bunch of Keepers before you, right, and I want to know why you, specifically, were chosen," I hope my explanation calms him, his unstable emotions beginning to have a strange effect on me. I'm darting around trying my best to be as plain and serious as possible. With a jester. Someone who usually exists simply for the causation of fun, not destroying it. His smile returns but he doesn't choose to speak. Instead he just stares at me, clearly trying to see if there's a hidden motive behind the things I say. The reason I'm here.  
"You know.. I just wanted to apologize. For what I said earlier, I mean," I begin slowly, trying as hard as I can to sound sincere. As real as my apology feels, I don't want to give him any reason to believe otherwise.

He doesn't move or speak, just continues to watch me with obvious interest. The quiet between my words is almost deafening, drawn out far too long and entirely uncomfortable. I don't know what I'm doing or what I'm saying, I just know I want Cicero to believe me.  
"I was scared, actually... A few weeks back before my contract in Markarth," my voice is suddenly a whisper, my mouth moving without permission or thought. I can hear my mind trying to bring this conversation to a grinding halt but I can't seem to stop myself. "When I was sick and you did those things for me, it sort of made me uncomfortable- but- i-in a good way," I'm stumbling over myself now and I would give anything to walk out of this room. Cicero's smile is gone and is replaced by an expression of complete enrapture which indirectly seems to urge me forward. "I'm not sure how to deal with positive interactions and I reacted badly... I suppose I'm a little insecure," I bite my tongue, hard. I cannot believe I let that slip. Fierce curse words in disgust run rampant through my mind as I wait with baited breath for his response. Again, nothing.  
I stand up, my hands on the table. "I'm truly sorry, Cicero. I honestly didn't mean to upset you." I step over the bench and walk towards the door before he calls me back in a sharp whisper. I turn to find him walking towards me, beaming.  
"All is forgiven, sweet Leivah," he takes my hands and holds them, the wave of relief I feel is indescribable. My eyes look up and meet his and there's suddenly a strong sense of familiarity here, the force of a blank memory slamming violently into the forefront of my mind. I've definitely seen this before, I've been here before. The clouded and jumbled mess of murky memoirs scramble to reach the light and I am left bereft of coherent thought. I reach for something distinct, something that makes sense as to why this could possibly be familiar. Cicero is still holding my hands firmly and I feel compelled to act on a vague memory. I move my hands from his and put them either side of his face. He goes completely still but does not protest as I move in and hug him, my arms wrapping around his neck.  
"Thank you," I whisper, allowing the peculiar nostalgia to envelope me for this all too brief a moment.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

I awaken to Astrid frowning down at me.  
"Get up," she orders before leaving the room. Gabriella is watching from her own bed, her expression unreadable.  
"Someone's cranky," she sniggers quietly, trying to lighten the mood when she notices how confused I must appear. I get up and get dressed into some light clothing, dreading finding out whatever it is that compelled her to awaken me herself.  
The Sanctuary feels awfully quiet with Veezara out on a contract and Arnbjorn seemingly missing today, leaving the forgery abandoned and silent. I enter the war room and find Astrid pacing impatiently, waiting for my appearance.  
"There you are," she whispers roughly and I am less than surprised to see a familiar form of concern washing over her face. "I need to have a word with you."  
"What's the matter Astrid?" I know where this is going. Ever since his arrival, Astrid has done nothing but worry about her control over this Sanctuary- her control over Cicero. Maybe her concern is justified, Cicero is higher ranked than all of us.  
"It's Cicero. Ever since he arrived, his behavior's been... Well, erratic would be an understatement. I do believe he is truly mad. But it's worse than that. He's taken to locking himself in the Night Mother's chamber, and talking- to someone. In hushed, but frantic tones. Who is he speaking with? What are they planning? I fear treachery." I desist the crippling urge to groan in exasperation. He's been here for weeks and no one but her fears anything from him, except Nazir but that's on an entire other level. Even Babette and Gabriella have gotten used to having him around, and Festus enjoys the Night Mother's presence, or at least her symbolism.  
"I think you're being paranoid, Astrid," I reply simply, folding my arms across my chest. He's done nothing wrong thus far, so what's her deal? Is her grasp on the Brotherhood honestly that fragile, that unstable?  
"I do not, Leivah. As the Night Mother's Keeper, he believes he's entitled to the rule of this Sanctuary. Cicero will cite our independence as the need to revert to the Old Ways. He'll claim we're undisciplined, unruly. Heretical, even. Ironically, the Night Mother could prove to be just as much a victim. The queen in a fool's twisted game of chess." The look on my face reads clear indifference, perhaps even boredom. I have no interest in discrediting a fellow member simply because he's... quirky. And even so, what would be so wrong about returning to tradition? I'm beginning to suspect Astrid is little more than a control freak.

"Well what do you want me to do about it?" my question is rhetorical but of course Astrid blindly looks past my sarcasm. Her voice becomes sickly sweet and I know she's going to ask something entirely abhorrent of me.  
"Dear sister, I need you to steal into that chamber, and eavesdrop on their meeting. It'll be no use clinging to the shadows. They'll see you for sure. No, you need a hiding place. Somewhere they'd never think to look..." She pauses a moment, still pacing as a hand runs through her hair. "... Like inside the Night Mother's coffin." Oh you have got to be kidding me.  
"But- He keeps it locked?"  
"Pick it."  
"Who said I know how to pick locks?" Astrid scoffs, and rightly so. Who can't pick a lock these days? "Okay, okay, fine. Can you tell me anything else? I mean... he could just be talking to himself? Who would even want to revolt against you?" Other than myself at this point, of course.  
"That's the real question, isn't it? The jester enters, seals the door, and the conversation begins. So someone must be waiting for him inside. Any one of us could enter that chamber silently. Unnoticed. But who among us would dare conspire against the Sanctuary? The very thought breaks my heart." A sorrowful expression flitters across her features and I would be tempted to feel sorry for her if I didn't think this whole situation to be a huge waste of my time. She dismisses me and I leave, feeling a little bit pessimistic about my new orders. I've only just managed to patch things up with Cicero, the last thing I want to do is discount myself even more. My mind wanders to last nights meeting and I find myself smiling slightly, pleased to know that mistake would not have long lasting effects on our friendship. He may be mad, but he's certainly not unreasonable. Or at least, he's not for now. I know that if I am discovered when spying on him things surely won't be so easy to fix.  
I wonder if Astrid fully understands what she's asking me to do, and what that could mean giving up. Just as I decide to let go of my instincts, of everything I know and am comfortable with to gain something new and promising, Astrid walks in and mindlessly steals it away.  
I need time to think about my options. at this point I refuse to risk what little I have, even for her.


	10. Chapter 10

_The cinders burn brightly in the hearth, the crackling spark of hot irons are threateningly close to Cicero's chest as he gasps for air. The burns leave heinous marks across his flesh as it melts against the metal, the air thick with the smell of burning meat as he screams again. One iron goes in, one comes out, perpetually switching, never ending. Assimo is shouting, his voice melding with Cicero's within the heavy stone walls, trying to drown out what little recompense his slave can emit.  
"_What will you do_?" comes the question yet again, but his pet refuses to break.  
"__**I will not harm Leivah**__!"  
"Wrong answer," the iron poker, white hot and creaking sinks deeply into his rib cage, splitting bone, puncturing organs. Blood rises up and threatens to drown him as it pools in his throat, his mouth, his chest. A spray of crimson flies forth from screaming lips, arms and legs straining painfully against metal clamps that hold him in place. Obedient, restrained._

_Assimo withdraws the poker, baring his teeth when Cicero's gargled howling ceases. Bloodied and mangled, his chest still rises and falls at an alarming pace, the colour draining from his skin as the open wound pulsates. The poker returns to the fire, the next one finally ready and waiting. Assimo hopes that perhaps this little ceremony will prevent his pet from acting out so defiantly again.  
"_What will you do_?" he shrieks, brandishing his weapon as his fury increases, the electricity in the air urging him on, forcing him to continue until his end is met.  
"__**I will not harm Leivah**__!" Cicero chokes through strangled sobs, the blood covering most of his face now, his consciousness fading fast as Assimo dives forward again into his stomach. The searing pain flashes white across Cicero's vision, forcing his back to arch, the skin rubbed raw and bruised against his unrelenting restraints.  
The sounds he can elicit from this initiate make Assimo tremble, causing him eagerly press harder and harder into his stomach until it hits the stone bench underneath him. He twists the metal poker, sneering barely inches from Cicero's face. A final cough and it's clear this is all he can take; the flow of blood slowing, the whites of his eyes are all that's visible now. He scoffs and withdraws again, casting the poker into the hearth with the others. A healing spell, a potion, a cream devised simply for this, his newest and most favorite way of playing with his toy. A cream to make every trace of this delicious affair invisible. His skin is new before long, a fresh pallet to desecrate._

_With a slap to the face Cicero is conscious once more and almost instantly gasping despite the absence of agony, cruelly aware of his situation. Again, Assimo goes to the hearth and takes a searing poker by the handle. His robes are drenched in blood, having cycled through this numerous times this evening. Cicero is quaking, his head violently shaking from side to side in protest. He's begging now and Assimo smiles, bringing the poker to rest above his navel, mere centimeters from his skin. The begging turns into screaming again, the fear gripping him entirely as he fights in vain against his bonds.  
"_WHAT WILL YOU DO_?"  
"__**I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH**__!"  
"WRONG. ANSWER."_

* * *

I was never one for spying. Sneaking, stealing, stabbing- sure, but spying? Definitely not my strong suit.  
I sit alone in the chapel, my face in my hands as I wallow in turmoil, nervous and uncertain about my newest orders. It must have been a while since I first entered this room, and I'm not sure what I'm hoping to achieve by just sitting here. One thing's for sure, as much as I am curious about the strange allure I feel for the Night Mother, I am not all that enthused about crawling in to the iron tomb with her corpse. I stand up, letting my hands drop to my sides as I casually approach the iron coffin, hoping to check out the lock. Oddly enough after a moment's inspection, it seems extremely basic. Too basic. Cicero is probably watching me right now, he's so sensitive over his position as Keeper... I don't think I believe this is his last defense to protect her integrity. Maybe he's inviting one of us to act treacherously... Baiting the potential threats before it actually matters. Clever... assuming of course that's even his plan.  
I groan loudly, realizing how crazy this sounds. I sit down again on the stone steps, finding it hard to even stand up any longer. I'm so exhausted.

When Cicero enters the room I hardly even notice, preferring to just stare mindlessly at the ground, hoping to switch lives with the pill bug I find scrambling around in the dust.  
It must be midday by now; the dining hall is filled with inane chattering. I look up finally and see Cicero standing near me holding a peculiar axe. He's smiling as always and I feel an immense twinge of guilt.  
"Cicero knew he'd find you in here!" He chuckles, handing me the axe as he takes a seat next to me.  
"Thanks, Cicero," I offer a smile, trying to seem at least semi normal despite the confusion I feel. "But uh... What's this for?" I ask, still staring at him as the painful sensation grows stronger in my chest. _This isn't fair_!  
"We're going on a little trip! Ohohoh, Leivah and Cicero- hoho! On the hunt!" He covers his mouth with his hand mischievously and I smile wider.  
"What're we hunting?" I chuckle, with obvious trepidation. The way he's looking at me suggests a possibly unpleasant surprise is in store.  
"Ahahah the question is '_who are we hunting_?'!" He laughs playfully and I snicker, my doubts erased.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Oh the gods, what is wrong with you?" I'm laughing hysterically, covering my face with my hands as Cicero stands on the table in the Falkreath Inn. The room is filled with drunkards who roar with laughter as the jester performs joke after joke, dance after dance on the counter while people cheer and shout. Mead overflows in every tankard tonight, every hunter relaxed and jubilant. I sit on a stool right at the counter, looking up at him as he expertly entertains the room full of nords, his every breath a new rhyme, a new punchline. I am jostled and rocked in the small ocean of sweaty men but my attention is only on Cicero, noting each and every detail of the way he moves, the way he speaks. The rise and fall of the tone in his voice, the savvy expression on his face as each person is pranked in turn with witty banter. I've never seen him like this, in his social element, entertaining as only a jester can do. I find myself oddly compelled to join him, but my ineptitude prevents me from stepping out of my comfort zone for fear of ruining his act.

Certainly no one at the Sanctuary would have time for him like this- I hardly could believe these Nords even would. They always seemed so serious, so bound to tradition and honor- too 'stoic' for something as Imperialistic as a jester. But here they all were, in joyful riot.

After a while the crowd subsides, most patrons face down on the floor or otherwise engaged outside in a healthy brawl over who had slain the biggest cave bear. I'm still seated, still watching him eagerly as he continues to captivate the dull lads that have straggled behind the others in passing out and/or roughhousing. As the last 4 people leave in a small group, chanting incoherently something about Talos, he turns to me, beaming with pride. My head is propped up on my hands, Cicero now sitting on the edge of the table. I return his smile and offer him my hand when I get to my feet. He takes it graciously and hops down from the table, a pink flush across his face from slight exhaustion. Being so enthralling for that long must surly take it out of you. I was only watching and I know I'm tired. But that could be my hunger.

_Hunger_.  
I am reminded of the reason we're here this evening, on our little trip into town. A hunting we must go. A hunting _I_ must go. I put a hand to the axe on my belt and Cicero gives me a knowing glance.  
"Are we ready, dear sister?"  
"We certainly are."  
Together we scan the room and decide no one here will do. We leave the Inn and hover around outside until I notice one chap wandering off on his own. _Gotcha_. I lead the way down the dark path after my target, Cicero seemingly soundless as he follows my trail. The man is stumbling around, tripping over his own feet. Drunkards never taste overly nice, the alcohol seeps into the blood stream and taints it. But I still get what I came for, in the end.  
I gesture for Cicero to join my side and I sweep up under one of the man's arms and Cicero does the same. The man calls out in fright until he realizes there's no danger. Not yet.  
"Whoa there buddy, looks like you could use a hand getting home," I say chuckling, patting him on the shoulder reassuringly. Cicero watches me with intense curiosity as we steer the man off the path with little effort, taking him deep into the Pine Forest. Soon Falkreath is out of even my ear shot, nothing heard but the gentle murmuring from our drunk friend and the sweep of our feet across the underbrush. I stop suddenly, the man almost entirely unconscious now, the only thing keeping him upright is Cicero and I.  
"This is far enough," I say bluntly, dropping the man to the ground. The familiar pressure has been building inside me for a while now and I can already feel my lack of control. "Please leave," I order, staring pointedly at Cicero who obliges and leaves the small clearing, allowing me to feel less tense. I know he's watching me still from the shadows but I forget that soon enough after I begin to walk tight circles around the Nord who lay defenseless at my feet. Honestly this is not as fun as I'd like- the thrill of the chase entirely removed from this particular equation. The smell of fear, the rushing of blood, watching the life leave their eyes. My mouth begins to water, my hands are starting to shake, my mind enveloped entirely by my desire to chase. To hunt. To kill. This was far too easy. I kneel down, my fingers reaching in my knapsack for a particular item. Skooma. I remove my hand and reveal the small phial, grabbing the man by his face as I pour the dark liquid down his throat. I sit back and watch as he regains awareness, blatant confusion replacing blissful ignorance. He sits up and I can hear his heart beginning to pound anxiously, his eyes growing wide, the veins in his arm popping up from beneath the skin as the vile substance grates through his system. He notices he's not alone finally, concerned.

"You're from the tavern-"  
"Shhhh shh." I silence him, restraining myself with every ounce of control I still have. "You have precisely 30 seconds to run away from me before I gut you. _Go_." He scrambles to his feet, his body refusing to obey as both alcohol and skooma run rampant through his blood stream.  
"Why-?" He stammers, falling backwards into the leaves again.  
"29, 28, 27." My tone is condescending and I can feel my excitement rise when he finally gains enough control to scurry out of my line of sight and into the woods. I breathe deeply, fighting to remain calm. Cicero is now by my side, confused and perhaps even slightly perturbed.  
"What, oh _what_ is silly Leivah doing?" He asks, more to himself than me.  
"Playing the game," I reply, a cruel smile gracing my features in the half light. I get to my feet and let my internal restraints go. I let my sense of right and wrong leave my mind, my body beginning to tremble with anticipation. I know Cicero's watching and now- now I _want_ him to watch me. I want him to see me at my strongest. My weakest. I want him to see me destroy and create in the taking of one, single life. I need to impress him.  
The Nord is long gone into the forest but I can still sense him, I can still smell him. He's headed away from Falkreath and further into the trees, further away from help, from escape. The twisted humour of the situation makes me laugh, loudly, shakily. Cicero remains silent, uncharacteristically so. I know it's been 30 seconds, each second seeming to last an infinity as my breathing becomes a growl, my fingers twitching, my muscles tensing. I can barely bring myself to move for fear of exploding until I hear Cicero finally speak.  
"Fetch," he laughs, clasping his hands together as I finally urge myself to move, to chase, to run. I leave him behind in the clearing, my feet ripping up the ground as I go. The trees whirl past me in a dizzying haze and I can feel the Nord's presence grow stronger, the smell of fear filling the air again as he wanders quickly and without direction. He's hopelessly lost as I circle him from a distance, allowing the sounds of snapping twigs and flurried leaf litter increase this unsuspecting man's terror.

"What do you want from me?" He's shouting now, question after question, aimless and petty. I stop circling to watch him stand still in sudden defeat, no longer trying to run. I can smell his blood on his skin- tantalizing, ripped open on sticks, scraped on rocks. I step out, unable to play out the waiting portion of this game any longer. I creep up behind him as he stands, quivering and pathetic. The breeze is beginning to pick up and I can smell Cicero on the wind; I'm surprised he's managed to reach me so quickly.  
When I am finally close enough I wrap my fingers around the Nord's throat from behind and squeeze slightly, alerting him to my immediate presence. He whimpers and tries to turn and face me, to pull away. I hold him in place and bring my mouth to his ear, my voice a gentle purr.  
"What do I want? I want to win." A cold shudder rips through his body as my breath brushes against the bare skin of his neck. I breathe deeply, time seeming to stop as I appreciate the absolute fear radiating from my prey. My resolve does not last long and soon the man is screaming, begging for death to take him.

* * *

_"Have you not noticed Bravil is in riot? We need to evacuate!"_  
_"We will do no such thing! You know your orders, now obey!" Assimo shouts, blocking the only exit as a thunderous hammering threatens to cave in their last defense against the crumbling society beyond. Above ground they can hear it. They all hear it. The crackling of houses on fire, the shattering of glass against molten heat. People are screaming, fighting against their own brothers. They know its their last days, yet Assimo will not allow them to leave, to flee for Cheydinhal before the Sanctuary is discovered. The few that remain huddle together in the main room, panic-stricken and exhausted while Assimo paces, infuriated by their weakness, their lack of commitment. Barely 10 members still survive, all of whom are verging on treachery. Cicero has observed, patiently watchful as each member slowly makes their descent, fear hindering their vision, their sense of what is right and wrong. He knows what each has done. He knows most have already broken tenants. Most have already killed one of their own in panic, confusion. Pathetic and wasteful, he is disgusted by their lack of faith in each other. The senseless fighting above has become so infectious that even they in the Brotherhood were no longer safe._

_"The Sanctuary is bound to be breached any day now!" One member is so bold as to stand in Assimo's face, the others obviously considering joining him.  
"There is no reason for alarm! We will wait here where it is safe!" He refuses, point blank as always. He will not say why he feels so strongly about remaining here but Cicero knows many things, and this was one of them. Assimo knows that if he should move his 'family' to Cheydinhal he would be effectively removing his rights as leader. The Black Hand resides in Cheydinhal, clearly more suited to a place of authority than he is and he knows it. He knows they would never stand for his lustful mistreatment of a fellow member. They may be an organisation of the strange and depraved but even those with such little moral have their limitations.  
"No reason for alarm? Are you kidding me? There are dead bodies at our doorstep and chaos all around the entirety of Cryodiil and you want us to stay here and just watch?" Absolute despair is beginning to rear its ugly head as each person begins to stand up to Assimo blindly. Their reasoning is sound but their cause for it is otherwise inclined. Fear is seldom a good influence for decision making.  
"You will do as I command, brother. You all will." His word is final and for an unknown reason they decide to leave it at that for tonight. Probably too exhausted to continue, the mindless dread wearing them to their core.  
Cicero can think of little else but what Leivah is doing right now, praying to every god he knows of that she is still alright up there in the open. The room empties as people retire to their chambers, disgruntled and ill at ease. Assimo is seated at a table now, wringing his hands as he agitatedly stares in Cicero's direction.  
"Why do they insist on disobeying me?" he asks quietly, rhetorically. Cicero is pulled from his daydream, suddenly aware that everyone has left now.  
"I don't know." He replies honestly but he knows that's not the answer Assimo was searching for. He stands up and wanders to Cicero who is leaning against a wall. The calm he had obtained in his dream-scape evaporates at his master's touch. Despite its tenderness, nothing can erase the memories of what these cruel hands have done to him. He tries not to reel back, to cower or protest and rather opts to stay still, violently uncomfortable. His hands take Cicero's face and he stares far too long into his eyes as if searching there for his answers.  
"Why can't they all obey like you, hmm..." definitely not a question, although the sickly sweet words hit a nerve. Why do they not obey as he does? What a harshly ironic way to phrase it. Perhaps it had something to do with the fact they did not know the meaning of the word 'fear' as he does. Words like 'obey', 'submit' and 'pet' all have different meanings for them. They do not know about suffering, about real turmoil or hopelessness. He considers that this may be why the crisis above doesn't worry him as much as it does everyone else. The chaos in common society seems so benign in his view, so far away from concern. The only question that phases him is t__he one that can bring him sobbing to his knees. T__he one he's come to hear a million times. _

_xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx_

_"_What will you do_?" Without waiting for his response Assimo begins immediately, knowing that this early on he would never answer correctly. He slams his palm down on the device and it rips off the fingernail on Cicero's right hand index finger. A sharp gasp is all his little pet is willing to offer before defying him with the expected answer spat through gritted teeth.  
"**I will not harm Leivah**." They've been through this time and time again, over and under, backwards and forwards. He's ripped him open from the inside out, torn off limbs and cracked cartilage in the name of 'commitment'. In the name of a god that Assimo himself did not lay his true allegiance to. There was but one god in his mind and that god was no other than himself. The rules did not apply to him - rules do not apply to gods. Tenants do not apply to gods above threatening.  
"Oh how you disappoint me, Cicero." Assimo moves the initiate's hand so his middle finger is placed snugly inside, the metal claws of the lever clamped tightly around the edges of his nail. Another sharp breath in preparation.  
"_What will you do_?"  
"**I will not harm Leivah**." A slam, a yelp, repeat. A slam, a yelp, repeat. A slam, a yelp, repeat. With a bored sigh Assimo pulls Cicero's bleeding and now nail-less hand from the device and moves it to the other side of the bench, ready to begin anew.  
Tears of pain have surfaced and are painting Cicero's face with shame. He knows he cannot continue this. He knows its futile. The more he persists the more difficult things are going to become for him. He isn't sure what he's fighting for anymore, if he's to be entirely honest. He doesn't know what else there is but the single goal of rebellion. It's been weeks of captivity, each and every night subjected to this cruel and unusual punishment, more intense, longer lasting than ever. He cannot remember Leivah's face anymore, the nights of their shared company reduced to the petty, professional meetings he'd once come to see them as in his younger days. He'd regressed to holding her accountable for this, for his suffering. As the third nail from his left hand is ripped clean away he finally screams, a fresh and raw source of fright igniting within his chest. His cause for holding his ground, staying resilient against the endless hours, the weeks on end was for a moment of brief satisfaction. The rise and fall of Assimo's expression when each time the question would repeat only to be defied. Repeated, defied, repeated, defied. Taking turns for a cruel game of chess, the only winner to emerge each morning was and always will be the man holding the denailer__. The poker. The belt. The hammer. The swords. The endless wave of __fresh contraptions__ and new ideas for increasingly convoluted methods of extracting his desired response.  
"_What will you do_?"  
"**I will not harm Leivah**!" His voice is now pure panic, his words repeating themselves and erupting in the form of a shrieking chant. The false reality is gripping him and each moment that passes allows another memory to fade. A smile, a laugh, an honest conversation. Vanishing. Vanishing. Vanishing. Vanishing. Vanishing. The walls around him seem to crumble and he can't even hear himself screaming the words, his bloodied fingers gripping, clawing bluntly on the stone bench in his twisted euphoria. Assimo has stepped back in confusion, a wild grin spread hungrily across his face. A new response._

_He reaches for the wooden hammer, a familiar and fairly lightweight tool. He holds it in one hand while the other steadies a convulsing Cicero. The hammer rises, then falls with a blunt crack against the middle of his pet's left hand. He watches for Cicero to make a new movement, a new word. Instead he continues exactly as he was; fighting and howling abhorrently loud. _No response_.  
Feeling his own desperation rise for a new game, a new format, he reaches for his glass war hammer.  
"What will you do?" The question now seems redundant, the chanting only growing louder and less bridled by coherency.  
"I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH, I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH, I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH, I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH!" The hammer rises, falls, destroys. A sickening sequence of fractures renders Cicero's arm virtually flattened and extremely bloodied. When this still does not alter Cicero's descent into hysteria Assimo repeats it on the right arm. Both legs. _No response_.  
Now confusion and disappointment turns to agitation. In frustration he brings the hammer down one final time in the lower part of Cicero's chest forcing his arching back to slam roughly against the stone table. Panting, the adrenalin coursing through Assimo's system slows to a violent crash. _A response_.  
Or rather, lack there of. Of anything. His chest is caved, mangled flesh obliterated and sprayed across the room, organs busted, lungs collapsed- impaled. Horror.  
He drops the hammer, inwardly recoiling in alarm as his hands work to cast a healing spell. Ferociously, rapidly, his bones clunk, scrape, reform and reshape. The caved rib-cage assembles itself neatly, the still beating heart faint now but steady. The bottom half of Cicero's chest is visually unharmed once again, dark skin covering evenly across previously distorted flesh. Assimo stands in shock, appalled and disgraced by his own lack of control. Another outburst like that in the wrong place could result in the loss of yet another pet._

_Cicero steals a viciously sharp gust of air, his lungs grateful for the resumption of regular operation. Assimo is standing nearby, forcing a smug expression now his toy is awake. Can't spoil the show, after-all.  
The naive initiate stokes it up to mere pain induced fainting, to which he is not unfamiliar. Assimo fumbles mindlessly, carefully picking his new instrument of torture. A simple knife is his final choice. _

_"_What will you do_?"_


	11. Chapter 11

I can feel the silence well up between us as we walk back to the Sanctuary, my armor doused in drying blooding. Perhaps I decided to play with my meal a little too much.  
"Why did you plan this?" I say as I step over a log, Cicero humming quietly to himself by my side. The lack of conversation after such a brutal display of my darkest side left me uncomfortable.  
"Why did I plan what, sister?" He speaks in a singsong voice and I feel my anxiety already slip. I can barely believe the effect this ridiculous jester has on me.  
"Don't play innocent- you hand me an axe, drag me out to a tavern for hours- I just. What made you think to do that?" What was the axe even for? What interest did he have in tagging along this evening.  
He doesn't respond immediately, focusing hard on where he places his feet. I notice his curl-tipped toes are gliding effortlessly across the fauna; I can hardly hear him at all.  
"Cicero.. wanted to show that there are no hard feelings about the things Leivah said." He chooses his words carefully and I feel a stab in my chest of guilt. I am yet to spy on him. I am to defy his rights to privacy on the grounds that I was simply asked to do so. By someone neither of us are overly fond of.  
"Why the axe, then?" There could be plenty of reasons for this but his specifically is not one I thought about.  
"Ahh, to make sure you weren't unarmed, of course! Cicero did not know your-... _hunting_ methods, sweet sister." His tone is almost patronizing but the actual words hit me rather hard. His meaning is clear and I cannot begin to fathom why he would feel that way. That he would be concerned for my safety.  
I am at a loss for words and rather than attempt speaking again and making myself look silly I decide to act boldly. Without breaking pace I step closer to a still walking Cicero and wring my arm through his, locking them together. I match his motions and he grins broadly at me, delighted by my gesture. He pulls me in even closer and we walk merrily to the Sanctuary, my jester continuing to hum his song, loud as ever while the viscous guilt claws at my insides, making each moment of comfort with him last an agonizing infinity.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The Sanctuary is dead quiet when I wake up the next morning, bright and excited for a day without Astrid's presence. She mentioned something about a meeting in Falkreath, not that I cared as long as she wasn't in my face with her incessant paranoia. I walk down the log stair case and into the dining hall and find Nazir who I've hardly spoken to at all since returning home after my contract in Markarth.  
"Sister," he says wryly, not looking up from his stack of papers on the table. "Did you need new contracts? I have a few right here- if you think you can handle it." Facetious as always, mocking and pompous. He may be my superior but he certainly rubs me the wrong way when he acts like that.  
"Oh, yeah sure. I could use some entertainment. And endless travelling in knee high snow." I reply with a similarly indifferent attitude and Nazir smirks at me before thrusting 2 pieces of paper from his small stack in my direction when I sit down across from him at the table.  
"Then these shall surely entertain." I take the documents from him and shuffle them around in my hands, yawning. I don't know when I got to bed but it must have been late.  
I look at these two new contracts, their names, their details and stop when I read that one of my new soon-to-be victims is a vampire residing at Half Moon Mill.  
"Uh. Nazir? Do you know anything else about this vampire?" I try to sound aloft despite my abject concern.  
Nazir smirks at me, finally making eye contact. "Don't tell me you have a thing against killing your own kin?" There's no spite but smugness is certainly there.  
"Not at all, a contract is a contract!" I am outwardly projecting my worry now, trying to compensate for my weakness. Nazir sniggers at me but answers regardless.  
"Hern is no one really. He and his lady friend Hert run the mill together. I don't know anything beyond that." He shrugs indifferently and I reel in my nerves. I can see he's curious about my urgent inquiry but doesn't ask me any further questions.

Breakfast passes slowly, each member coming in and taking something before exiting the room again to pick up their daily routine without much conversation. Some mornings just aren't as lively as others. I can feel a sickening anxiety building within me as the morning progresses, choosing to spend it mostly in the dining hall. By midday I stand and leave the room, Nazir hardly seeming to notice my departure at all. I walk up the stairs, cut through the dorm room and into the passage leading to Cicero's room and the chapel. I head to my left and hear Cicero humming as usual. I round the corner to find him at his table, drinking from a tankard. He looks up at me and smiles and I feel even worse. I cannot bring myself to chose a side here. Obey Astrid; someone who has given me a home, friends, a family and a steady job or Cicero. Confusing and accused of insanity but someone who probably belongs as leader. Someone who makes me feel better about everything. Someone who makes me feel like I truly have a home. My head is spinning as I take my seat next to my new friend.  
"Leivah doesn't look so good!" his tone is overflowing with playfulness but I know there's an element of truth. When I don't respond immediately save for an awkward shrug his expression turns from merry to meditative. "Oh, you're upset? What troubles sweet Leivah?" He puts a hand on my arm and I take note of his bold action. Well, perhaps not so bold. I think I may have broken the personal space barrier with my overly friendly attitude last night. Although, I have to admit I don't seem to mind it at all.  
His question however does leave me uncomfortable. Two things press quite intensely on my mind today.  
"I have my new contracts from Nazir and Astrid won't give me another primary contract until these are finished." I sigh as I wave the two pieces of paper I'm still holding in my hand, knowing half truths won't get me far with Cicero.  
"Hmph. Astrid. She is proving quite... bothersome." He pouts and slumps face down on the table. I try not to laugh as I shake him by the shoulder, my curiousness eager to find out where he's going with this, if anywhere.  
"What in Oblivion has she done now?" I can't hide the humor in my voice and he sits bolt upright, furious and ready to rant.  
"She won't listen! No, no she has _far_ better things to do- apparently. No time for the Keeper, ohh no. No time for Mother, worst of all!" The rage was momentary and is replaced by profound sadness.  
"What isn't she listening to?" I'm grateful he's no longer focused on my predicament; he'd have gotten answers out of me with no trouble. I couldn't afford to betray Astrid now, no matter how much it hurts me. I've lied to kings, to guards and jailers, false friends and bandits, spies and Jarls but I cannot lie to him. He always seems to know and I always seem to want him to.  
"The Night Mother shouldn't be taken so lightly! The way this- Pretender- runs things is totally out of control! There is no order, oh can't you see?" he sounds desperate and I want to give him the answer I know he needs to hear.  
"I wasn't around before the fall of Cheydinhal... I honestly couldn't say." My response verges on cold but he understands that there is no possible way I would know about the old ways of the Brotherhood.  
"Ah. I suppose not..." He looks at me queerly, something new clearly having crossed his mind.  
"... What...?" I smile slightly, nervous but beginning to feel a little uncomfortable with him looking at me like that. So closely, so entirely.  
"Cicero wonders... what Leivah thinks of the mistress, hmm?" he tilts his head and the dangling points on his hat sway. I watch him with interest equal to his own, inquisitively attentive to each detail in his face. A spray of light freckles over his tanned skin, high cheek bones and eyes that seem to burn. Incredibly neat eyebrows, shaped and perfectly symmetrical, harshly contrasting with the shock of his red hair. I'm drawn back to his eyes and can't seem to find any words. Dark circles encasing his eyes are all that betrays an otherwise cheery persona.  
"She seems... to be an effective leader?" My answer is a question, yet somehow entirely negating what I know he wanted. I don't like Astrid. I think her paranoia gets in the way and she spends too much time trying to protect her own interests, rather than what is best for the family she claims to love so dearly. However my loyalties lay with her, even if only for my brother's and sister's sakes.  
"Cicero thinks you feel fondly for her," he titters knowingly and I remain silent, still held captive by his stare.  
"Leivah thinks you have trouble sleeping," I reply bluntly, deciding to move so my legs are either side of the bench, making it easier to face him properly. He copies me, his hands on his knees as he also continues to stare at me. He laughs lightly and I know immediately he wants to change the subject.  
"Cicero sleeps just fine, sister,"  
"You can't lie to me," I shoot back, a smug grin crossing my face. As defenseless as I have become around him I suddenly realize the same could be said for him.

He sits up straight, folding his arms and turning his head. What a child. I stand up, knowing I've won even without his reply. As I turn to leave in triumph a hand on my arm stops me. Cicero is now looking up at me from the bench, pulling lightly at my sleeve.  
"You don't play fair with poor Cicero," he complains.  
"I don't play fair with anyone- why d'you think I joined the Brotherhood?" I smile brightly, becoming less and less conscious of my fangs every day. He doesn't return my smile but rather stands up and puts both hands firmly on my shoulders, looking stern.  
"You wouldn't do anything to hurt Cicero, would you?"  
I honestly don't know what to say, words entirely escaping me at his question. What would hurting him even entail? In what way did he mean 'hurt'? Again I'm reminded that I have orders to invade his privacy- perhaps that could warrant his meaning. He's searching my face and I don't know what to do, so for lack of words I hug him again, my arms wrapping tightly around his neck. His hands move from my shoulders and he grips the fabric of my tunic at my back. A few moments pass and I know this goes beyond socially acceptable lengths for a friendly hug but I don't want to pull away. The tugging at my clothes suggests he feels the same.  
"Of course I wouldn't." I finally manage to speak, still not relenting my hold. I can feel his breath on my skin, the beat of his heart and thrum of his blood. My heightened senses allow me to notice much more about a person than most yet all I can be sure of is that right now, for the first time in my life, I feel _safe_.

* * *

_"I know you're there," Leivah calls in a singsong voice, not looking up from her potion making._  
_"Your Bosmer hearing isn't fair. I make a living with being stealthy, you know! And you just cramp my style." Cicero emerges from the nearby thistle bush and into the clearing. The sunlight is warm, the grass seeming greener than usual, the forest more lively despite the deadly goings-on in nearby Bruma. _  
_Cryodiil has erupted into a violent war against itself, the land seeming to turn inside out with strife. The people are fleeing from town to the next, searching for a refuge that will never come. The same could be said for all of Tamriel at this time._  
_"I'd be sorry if I believed you ever had any style to begin with. All you ever wear is that dowdy uniform," she grins playfully when she looks up from her potion to find him returning her smile as he sits down in the dirt beside her._  
_"Oh how you wound me." He mockingly fakes ailment and lets himself fall backwards._

_Leivah watches him, amused by his tomfoolery. How long had it been since their last battle? Weeks? Months? Years? It didn't matter anymore. _  
_He doesn't get up again until Leivah stops mixing her ingredients in the bowl, her expression suddenly less than cheerful. The shirt on his uniform has risen above the hem of his pants and she can see a sliver of skin, red and angry. Cicero notice's her abrupt lack of movement and quickly realizes why. He sits up quickly, adjusting his shirt. _  
_"It's nothing, honestly-"_  
_"Just-... Just stop." Leivah puts down her bowl and puts a hand on Cicero's chest before pushing him back down. She pulls up the shirt to reveal his stomach and manages to keep herself from gasping aloud. _  
_"Why won't he heal these properly?" She knows who does this. It doesn't take much thought to put things together. There were two things Leivah knew for certain about the Dark Brotherhood. Firstly, Assimo was the acting leader of the Bravil Sanctuary and secondly, she knew she hated how he treated Cicero._  
_"It's fine, Leivah, c'mon-" he pushes her hand away and fights to sit up again but she holds him down roughly with her palms against his shoulders, her weight holding him in place._  
_"No it's not! It is the exact opposite of fine! _Why won't he heal these properly_?" Her voice is stern and unwavering and he knows he's lost this argument.  
"He said I wasn't-... '_learning_' anything by getting to walk away unscathed all the time." He wants to look away from her piercing gaze, her face cast in light shadow against the blazing sun overhead. But he can't bring himself to tear his eyes away from hers. He can see the stray hairs in her braids moving in the breeze like spun silver, seeming to glow against the intense light while her eyes search him for answers.  
"I swear by the eight if I ever get close to that wretched fool I will tear-"  
"Leivah." Cicero raises his hands and puts them either side of her face, smiling gently. "There's nothing you can do for me." He knows this is a lie. He knows she does everything for him already just by being here with him, for understanding why he's torn. For understanding how he feels.  
Leivah's expression turns to futility and sits back on her heels in utter despair at the situation. Things can never just be a simple day in the sun nor a long, lighthearted conversation by night. Nothing can ever just be._

_"I _will_ find something. I_ will_ do something." Her voice is beginning to waver and she fights it as her hands begin to work. Motion to movement, movement to magic and her hands are emblazoned with a soft golden light. "Hold still a moment." Her voice is strangled now and its taking all her efforts to keep from crying. The strong and infamously gifted protege has grown into an emotional wreck, barely capable of holding the one person she loved together and whole.  
Cicero felt the dull ache of aging scars and torn muscle fade away at her touch, her hands shaking. The skin is clear again but she doesn't stop yet. Maybe if she just keeps healing him it'll heal everything else too. He watches her in confusion, knowing that no matter how long she tries to heal his wounds nothing will ever end the screaming pain that haunts his chest, his mind, his heart.  
__Leivah works herself into her magic, her attention focused now on nothing else. The intensity of the spell is for naught however on her entirely healed subject. She only stops when his hand takes one of hers and pulls her slightly to look in his direction.  
__"It's okay now," he says slowly, almost with trepidation.  
__She hangs her head and finally the tears come. "Nothing will ever be okay, Cicero."  
__He physically feels his heart break in his chest and his lungs refuse to function. He reaches out and pulls her into him, fighting back his own tears as her arms wrap tightly around him, her body shaking with sobs._

_They hear the chirping of birds, the smooth humming of insects in the forest and they reflect upon this bitterly. How twisted it is that something so devastating can happen while everything else in this moment can seem untouched. That only they can feel this pain and no one else could ever know what it's like.  
How unfair that this burden can weigh entirely on just two miserable kids.  
_

_Leivah finally manages to pull herself together enough to speak again. "Where have you been?"  
This question is hard to answer. He doesn't want to admit to being held captive at the Sanctuary. He doesn't want to admit the extent of his torture and degradation. He doesn't want to admit that he's broken out just to see her and when he gets home he is sure to face an unyielding wrath.  
He doesn't want to, but he knows he has to.  
"I wasn't permitted to leave."  
__"Wasn't, or aren't?" comes her reply, one that he was expecting.  
"... Aren't."  
__"Why not?" Anger laces her words now and she pulls away just enough to achieve eye contact.  
__A heavy sigh and he leans in to rest his forehead against hers. "They found out about us meeting up to talk." The words hang in the air for a few moments too long and he knows what she's thinking.  
"Leivah, there's nothing we can do."  
"There is something we can do!"  
"Not this again. Not again, I _can't_ go through this one more time. You know I can't." He is defeated, exhausted and simply wishes to just enjoy her company in the pleasant warmth of the sun, grateful for the chance to just be away from his home.  
She waits a moment and __decides its best to drop the subject when she realizes her worrying is only causing him further distress.__ "How bad are things for the Brotherhood?" Her new question doesn't do much to help stop his unease but at least it doesn't feel as personal.  
__"We're in ruin, honestly," he says hopelessly, looking up to meet Leivah's curious stare. He can see she's tentative, the traces of crying still evident on her face. "The war has left us almost in the open, we've barely got any Sanctuaries left anywhere." Still not a good question._

_Leivah must admit she doesn't feel any kind of pity for the Brotherhood. Not after all they've done. But she does feel sorry for Cicero, even though she may never understand his attachment to them. The idea of the Brotherhood dying out both pleases and terrifies her in the way it could mean Cicero's freedom from them, but he could also just be another dead member left lying dead, unknown in a caved in Sanctuary.  
The thought chills her.  
"I'm really sorry to hear that... Things aren't too wonderful out here either." With the entirety of Tamriel on its toes, betraying kindly strangers was becoming a dying art form. No one trusted anyone anymore.  
"I'm sure they're not." They sat facing each other in silence after that, each swept up in their own separate predicaments._

_They both knew things were on the verge of change in Cryodiil. Although that could mean many things, they both just wanted the outcome to mean the other's happiness._

* * *

Now was the part I had dreaded for 2 days. As far as I can tell each person was in the dining hall save for Cicero who I could hear from the room at the end of his bedroom's passageway. Light humming, the sound of pages in a book folding and turning. Astrid had been home for several hours now but I had managed to avoid a run in with her.  
I press onward and silently into the chapel, finding the room exactly as I remembered. The strong smell of Nightshade invades my senses, the strange allure of the tomb as tempting as ever. I move towards it and fiddle with the lock, easily breaking it. I take a deep breath, my nerves on edge. If I'm discovered it will mean the end of my friendship with Cicero. The mere thought terrifies me beyond belief but I have my orders. With a slight huff and a spurt of bravery I pull wide the double doors of the tomb and find the Night Mother; her presence is calming, her condition unbelievably intact after such a long time. Her allure is only more intense when I lay my eyes upon her, drawing me in. The idea of sharing her coffin doesn't seem so unpleasant now, the foreign feeling of instant attachment overwhelming and entirely disarming.

I don't know how long I spend admiring her, taking my time in relishing her company. I find her to be comforting, as if a peculiar warmth is resonating from within her. I know my time is up, however, when I hear Cicero moving in the other room. Show time. I huddle in next to the Night Mother and close the doors behind me, realizing how my nervousness has entirely melted away.  
The chapel doors open, and then close again. Silence. Nothing is heard but the light scuffle of Cicero's shoes, the continued trilling as he walks about the room. Eventually even he falls silent and I begin to suspect he's realized something is amiss. That is, until he speaks.  
"Are we alone? Yes... yes... alone. _Sweet_ solitude. No one will hear us, disturb us. Everything is going according to plan." My breath hitches but I remain unheard. Perhaps Astrid wasn't entirely incorrect. I feel sick, confused as to his true intentions. What could he possibly be doing?  
"The others... I've spoken to them. And they're coming around, I know it. The wizard, Festus Krex... perhaps even the Argonian, and the _un-child_... What about you? Have you... have you spoken to anyone? No... No, of course not. I do the talking, the stalking, the seeing and saying! And what do you do? Hmmm? _Nothing_! Not-... not that I'm angry... No, never! Cicero understands. Hahahh... Cicero always understands. And obeys! You will talk when you're ready, won't you? Won't you... ...sweet Night Mother." He drifts off and my suspicions are erased. As I expected, he talks only to the himself- to the Night Mother. I am compelled to exit the tomb and comfort him, his distress oddly infectious to me. I stay my hand from pushing open the doors for fear of his reaction, and for what follows as an indirect response to his rantings.

"**Poor Cicero. Dear Cicero. Such a humble servant. But he will never hear my voice. For he is not the Listener.**" The sickly sweet voice of who can only be the Night Mother calls out to me, forcing my attention to focus exclusively on her every word. Her remarkable aura engulfs me and I am left almost breathless, the gentle heat seeming to embrace me as I stand petrified. Am I hallucinating? Is Cicero's madness contagious? Preposterous, of course.  
"Ohh, but how can I defend you? How can I exert your will? If you will not speak? To anyone!" Cicero's voice has risen higher, his tone miserable.  
"**Ah, but I will speak. I will speak to you. For you are the one. Yes, you. You, who shares my iron tomb, who warms my ancient bones. I give you this task - journey to Volunruud. Speak with Amaund Motierre.**" She speaks directly to me and I am lost for words. Her voice trails off but the immense weight of her words remains while Cicero continues to ramble. My mind is almost tearing itself between the two, struggling desperately to hear them both as they speak, each conversation proving equally important to me despite my inability to respond to either.  
"Poor Cicero has failed you. Poor Cicero is sorry, sweet mother. I've tried, so very hard. But I just can't find the Listener..." He stops speaking and I can almost feel the despair in his voice. How long has he been searching? How much time was spent alone since the fall of Cheydinhal 10 years ago? My chest begins to ache despite the comfort the Night Mother provides me.  
"**Tell Cicero the time has come. Tell him the words he has been waiting for, all these years: 'Darkness rises when silence dies.**'"

Darkness rises when silence dies? What could that possibly mean? I don't have long to consider this question before my train of thought is brought to a screeching halt. To my horror, the coffin doors open wide and Cicero is standing there, more furious than I'd ever seen anyone.  
"What? What treachery! Defiler! Debaser and defiler! You have violated the sanctity of the Night Mother's tomb! Explain yourself!" he wails, trembling and I step down from the shrine, shaking and slightly blinded by the sudden light. The Night Mother's essence recedes and I am left alone again, facing a fierce wave of rage from my first and only friend. I can see he's consciously holding himself at bay, fighting against the urge to tear me to shreds. I put up my hands as a signal of innocence, a weak attempt at offering peace.  
"The Night Mother spoke to me," is the only thing I manage to say, her whispered words still resonating within my head.  
"She... spoke, to you?" He mumbles quietly, more to himself than me. I lower my hands, deciding he's calming down. He looks to meet my eyes and fury etches deeply into every feature of his face. He lunges forward and grabs me before shoving me roughly against the wall, his dagger drawn and pressing roughly against my throat. I gasp for air and struggle against him, the hungry glare in his eyes reminding me of what I must look like when chasing my own prey. The intimacy between predator and prey, the abstract closeness of opposing wills caught face to face in bloody battle. "More treachery! More trickery and deceit! You lie! The Night Mother speaks only to the Listener! And there _is... no... Listener_!" His every word is brimming with unbridled anger, his voice a vicious growl as the ebony dagger presses harder against my skin with every syllable he utters. His body is against mine, holding me in place as I fight him, but my efforts prove to be entirely futile.  
I cannot breathe for the weight he's driving against me, the knife breaking the skin in a jagged criss-cross pattern as I resist.

"Can- hah can you not do that?" A joking, rhetorical question that only seems to madden him. The knife is pressed so roughly against my throat I begin to feel the trail of blood seep out and down my front, staining my clothes.  
"How _dare_ you mock me? The Night Mother? You're just the filthy _ingrate_ I feared you were," he spits venom and honestly the indignity hurts more than the quickening flow of blood escaping my throat.  
"Excu-use me?" I'm gasping now, each breath a struggle to suck in, the force against my body threatening to break my ribs. Where is this strength even coming from?  
Cicero is shaking, strands of hair falling from under his cap and across his face. I can feel the irritated skin around the cut on my throat beginning to chafe painfully, the blood soaking my shirt crimson.  
"She said to tell you something, Cicero- but I can't- ugh-!" My words escape me, talking verging on impossible now. He eases the pressure allowing me to speak for which I am grateful. "'Darkness rises when silence dies-" He pulls away as if I had struck him and I drop to the floor, greedily dragging in deep breath after deep breath. I put a hand to my throat and find my skin in a mess, blood smeared all over my neck around the awkward lacerations.  
Cicero turns back to me, his dagger playing idly between his bloodied fingers and I stare back, finally getting back to my feet.  
"She... she said that? She said those words... to you? 'Darkness rises when silence dies'? But those are the words- the Binding Words. Written in the Keeping Tomes. The signal so I would know. Mother's only way of talking to sweet Cicero..." He moves closer, automatic, and I flinch at his sudden movement, stepping back against the wall. I watch him warily and he decides to keep his distance, traces of regret readable in his flashing expressions.  
Sudden euphoria sweeps him into a dance and I am left speechless and confused, perhaps even slightly annoyed.

"Then... it is true! She is back! Our Lady is back! She has chosen a Listener- she has chosen you! Hahhaha! All hail the Listener!" he moves forward again despite my obvious discomfort. Listener? All this time it's been me?  
"Cicero shhh, hold on a moment." I need him to quiet down before Astrid comes in. Surely she would have heard him screaming but I need a moment to think. I shouldn't be too long before she arrives.  
Cicero stops dancing for a brief second and eyes me curiously, a maniacal grin still spread across his face. I cannot express how glad I am to see him smile again, even if the circumstances are entirely bizarre.  
"What is it, sister?" he coos as I begin to pace, rubbing slightly at my neck. I vaguely notice in my peripheral vision as Cicero examines the amount of blood that coats his hands and sleeves. Guilt suddenly plagues him and he looks between his messy arms and me as I pointedly ignore his concern.  
I don't want Astrid to know about this- her paranoia is so fragile I fear she may snap.  
"Cicero, we can't tell Astrid about any of this-"  
"But why not, why not, _why not_?" His voice is pleading but I stand my ground. I can't afford her suspecting both of us- and for doing nothing wrong. I know she will have ways of making life hell.  
"Just don't say anything!"

At that moment a red faced Astrid comes crashing through the side door, her dagger drawn.  
"By Sithis, this ends now! Back away, fool! Whatever you've been planning is over! Are you all right? I heard the commotion. Who was Cicero talking to? Where's the accomplice? Reveal yourself, traitor!" When no one emerges from the shadows her attention falls to Cicero, covered in blood and me, bleeding and still rasping for breath. My stomach falls then when I hear Cicero speak in defiance.  
"I spoke only to the Night Mother! I spoke to the Night Mother, but she didn't speak to me. Oh _no_. She spoke only to _her_! To the Listener!" He laughs maniacally and I scowl, wishing death upon all three of us for all the rage I feel well up inside myself.

_Fucking jesters_.


	12. Chapter 12

"What? The Listener? What are you going on about? What is this lunacy?" Astrid sheathes her dagger and folds her arms across her chest. I can see confusion mixed with a twinge of smugness, obviously ready to shoot down any claims we may hold to tradition.

"It's true, it's true! The Night Mother has spoken! The silence has been broken! The Listener has been chosen!" Cicero is filled with absolute glee while I feel my world begin to shudder and creak beneath my feet. This cannot be happening right now. While I am happy to have negated the bad consequences of being found out while spying on him, I hardly prefer these circumstances.  
Astrid walks between us and speaks directly to me, blocking my view of Cicero as he continues to dance and giggle inanely.  
"Then what in Sithis' name is going on? Cicero spoke to the Night Mother, but she spoke to_ you_? Is this just more of the fool's rambling?" I can see mild satisfaction on her face, feeling confident that I will side with her and deny his claims. But I heard what I heard. There's no point in lying to her about it now that she's been partially informed.  
"Well... yeah. Yes the Night Mother spoke to me." I am disheartened, expecting backlash but instead receive murmured words of confusion as she speaks to herself, hoping to understand the situation.  
"What? So Cicero wasn't talking to anyone else. Just... the Night Mother's body? And the Night Mother, who, according to everything we know, will only speak to the person chosen as Listener... just spoke. Right now...to you?" Absolute disbelief and for once I honestly don't blame her. I myself feel like I've been struck by lightening, this odd phenomenon causing my life to descend in an uncontrolled spiral.  
"That's-... that's right, Astrid... She said something about a contract? That I need to go to Volunruud and talk to someone called Amaund Motierre." My tone is lifeless, my mind on an entirely different plane of thought although I'm not sure where.  
"Amaund Motierre? I have no idea who that is. But Volunruud... that I have heard of. And I know where it is."  
"Well? Should I go?"  
"Hmm? No. _No_! Listen, I don't know what's going on here, but you take your orders from me. Are we clear on that? The Night Mother may have spoken to you, but I am still the leader of this Family. I will not have my authority so easily dismissed." I keep myself from groaning aloud. Again with the imaginary battle for leadership. "I... I need time to think about all this. Go see Nazir - do some work for him. I'll find you when I'm ready to discuss the matter further."  
"I've already seen Nazir-" I call after her as she exits the chapel, shaking her head absently. Hopeless.

I round on Cicero, baring down on him until he's backing away from me, smiling widely despite his trepidation.  
"What the _fuck_ were you thinking? I told you not to say anything to Astrid!" Cicero trips backwards, falling dramatically over one of the stone benches and I lean against it, determined to remain within an uncomfortable proximity.  
"Calm down, Sister! Calm down! Cicero just wanted what's best for the Listener!" There's laughter in his voice and it furthers my annoyance. He has his hands up in front of his chest and I am mere inches from them, threatening and angry.  
"What's best for me, or what's best for you?" I snap back, watching the humor leave his face. He can see I'm entirely serious now and thankfully takes the defensive rather than returning my offensive.  
"Ohhh, you wound poor Cicero!" He pouts deeply and I already feel less angry. I can't believe how childish he is. I can't believe how easily he manipulates me.  
His eyes look suddenly away from my face and to my throat and the pout is replaced by obvious remorse. He removes a glove from one hand and slowly, softly, lifts it to meet the jagged flesh across my neck. I remain frozen, watching him with acute interest, unable to bring myself into an upright standing position. I can feel his fingers tracing the edges of gashes, his brow knit into a frown.  
"You wound the poor Listener," I whisper quietly, sarcastically, hoping to lighten the moment. However my tone seems to only further the ridiculous tension he managed to build by simply touching my throat. Cicero looks up to meet my eyes again and his hand moves, covered in blood, to the back of my neck. I stop breathing, confused, alert. The feeling of anger seems so impossibly far away now and I can't look anywhere else but his eyes.  
"I am sorry, sweet Leivah," his voice is barely audible and I want to respond, to erase his concerns despite knowing it's justified for him to feel this way. But Instead I am rendered just as speechless as he frequently leaves me, helpless and entirely indignant.

Helpless and entirely indignant right until the exact moment he pulls me in and captures my lips with his. Time stops and I inhale sharply, my train of thought evaporates and I close my eyes as if terrified. What does he think he's doing? Why can't I manage to pull away from him? Why don't I want to? As if it's instinct, a natural response even for someone like me, I push back against him and move my hands to his face. As if queued by my movements he wraps one arm around my waist, the other moving from my neck to pull slightly on my hair. The strain of this awkward angle is irritating the skin on my throat and eventually I have no choice but to pull away, short of breath and blushing furiously. I stand upright, incredibly conscious of how _uncomfortable_ I feel without his hand at the back of my head or around my middle.  
Cicero stares at me from the ground, grinning smugly at me as I catch my breath.  
"What was that about?" I shoot the first question that crosses my mind, the first partially coherent thought I manage to make. I want to hide my face, or kick him, or both. He stands up, somehow making it look easy despite the ridiculous position he had to climb out of. Which I suddenly remember is my fault- and rightly so. My annoyance floods back but I keep it hidden for now, deciding I'll make him answer for it later when my mind is clearer.  
He doesn't answer me but instead giggles childishly and I cannot believe how much that infuriates me. He stares at me and I can see he's unsure about what to do with himself, almost as much as I am but my throat is hurting more now than when he was shredding it. I move my hands, taring my eyes from his, and begin to focus entirely on my magic. He watches me curiously as the golden light engulfs my hands and I press them to my neck, the grand sensation of ease replaces the itchy pain that had begun to cloud my concentration. I don't think I've used magic in front of him and he does little to hide his interest, although I'm happy for a distraction. As the light recedes and the clean flesh is left behind he steps forward to inspect my work meticulously. His lack of respect of personal boundaries verges on an art form. His hands reach for my throat and I grab him by the wrists, forcing him to look at my face.  
"What in Oblivion d'you think you're doing?" I ask calmly, fighting my waves of conflicting emotions. I'm not sure how I feel, or how I should feel. First he assaults me, then he kisses me, and then he acts like neither of these things happened and continues to press my buttons.  
"Cicero didn't know you were a mage! And what _skill_! So clean, so clean!" Chirpy as ever, making no effort to break from my straining grip on his arms.

I don't reply, but rather hold his hands still until the smile fades and he knows I'm waiting for a real response. He sighs in defeat and I watch expectantly.  
"I am sorry, Listener." He begins slowly, his voice low and uncertain. My grip on him loosens, the skin on his one bare wrist beginning to show signs of agitation from my hold.  
"It's been so long- so very long since anyone treated poor Cicero like he was a person! I am more than a mere fool, yes I am!" He pouts now, the air seriousness gone from his demeanor. I sigh and release him but he doesn't step back, his thoughts running over and over in my mind. How could no one but me see past his facade? Why did everyone see the jester but not the jest? The false smiling, the repetitive joking, the dark circles under his eyes that are a clear give away to the blatant exhaustion. How is it that only I took any of this into account?  
"You're very important to me, Cicero." He audibly gasps, the most genuine smile I've ever seen gracing his features. "I just wish you'd listen to me."  
Humorously, he bows low in front of me and I don't know if he's mocking me or not.  
"Of course, of course! What ever the Listener wants!"

* * *

_One thousand and one, one thousand and two, one thousand and three, one thousand and four, one thousand and five, one thousand and six, one thousand and seven, one thousand and eight, one thousand and nine, one thousand and ten. Blood cakes the floor and broken fingers claw over gushing table edges, lungs reaching, eyes rolling, tongue gagging. He cannot breathe he cannot breathe he cannot breathe he cannot breathe. Another favourite joins the ranks; a cat-o-nine-tails. Barbed wire strands spring out of a splintered wooden handle held in a wicked grip. A wolfish grin, a daunting glare, a dark chuckle, a horrific crack. _

_Pointed metal bares down on mutilated flesh, his screaming never ending as the whip continues again and again and again, up and down, over and under. Ripping- tearing- flaying him inside and out to create something new, something bitter, something broken. The question flies forth another time, the voice like crackling thunder against bursting ear drums.  
"_WHAT WILL YOU DO_?" A pause, a breath, a moment. Convulsion takes the initiate and he is once again unreachable through the violent howling of his only answer.  
"**I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH, I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH, I WILL NOT HARM LEIVAH.**" These words are his last when he finally manages to bite off his own tongue- again.  
Assimo sighs, knowing this battle is over. But the war is far from won. The others may have deserted, disobeyed or died and the actual war outside is raging stronger than ever, the inevitable breach of the sanctuary ever present in their minds during these last days. They may have deserted, disobeyed or died but this war was far from won. _

_A healing spell, the cooling tendrils of golden glow reach forth in a shimmering spiral and caress the heated and savage skin. The shrieking subsides, the flesh covers over, the tongue regrows. Heaving lungs suck greedily at the air, still thick with the scent of burning flesh. The usual parade, the commonplace dance of to and fro. His mind is clear once more when the insanity of his special brand of twisted euphoria recedes into a blackened memory, Assimo watching him with absolute disgust. Cicero takes one breath and holds it, forcing his system to calm down. Who is Leivah? He hardly knows right now. An empty word with no meaning, a face long lost to the chasm and the chaos. The stone walls of this bunker swirl in and out of his vision, his lungs beginning to ache.  
_

_"What will you do?" The clear impatience is the only knowable emotion crossing Assimo's taut features, his eyes squinted and seeming to glow with venomous intent. An assortment of thoughts flood inward through Cicero's mind and send him spiraling further away from the realm of coherency. The question seems to swim within his blurring vision, clear as day, shimmering and blinding and painful. 'What will I do? What will I do? What will I do? What will I do?' One single question; screamed, shouted, howled, shrieked, whispered, murmured. Painful and monotonous. Again and again. Again and again. Again and again.  
A question he has come to hear one million times. A question__ that would finally break him after hearing it for the one millionth and one time._

_The whip poised, the crackling pokers, the blood stained bench. The question. The question. The question. The question. The question.  
__An answer.  
"I will harm Leivah."_

_His voice is broken, a look of total indifference drawn across his face, long and dark as if cast in shadow. Assimo is silent, watching keenly while the whip remains positioned for the crack down. Cicero's attention suddenly focuses on only his master, eyes narrowed and piercing, daring him to ask again.  
"What will you do, Cicero?" The repeated question escapes him again, brimming with trepidation. Perhaps he'd only heard what he had wanted to hear. The answer he'd been begging for.  
"I will harm Leivah." Louder, stronger, definite. Cicero speaks simply, bluntly. He knew this day would come; he knew there would be a time when he could no longer fight. The bitterness has filled him totally and completely and there was nothing left but the singular pursuit of blood. A different question comes from the twisted grin that is on Assimo's face. Success.  
"How will you harm her?" One thousand thoughts, plots, ploys, plans. A question he'd asked himself in silence during his endless time in this room. His mouth spreads wide into a smirk.  
"I will stab her," he says, forcing Assimo to feel the violent tug of an anti-climatic response.  
"How will you harm her, my pet?" He urges, lowering the whip and playing with it eagerly; his fingers slowly, roughly moving along the lengths of each and every tail. Cicero's mind turns upside down in sudden anticipation; each vivid thought, whim, image more tantalizing than the last.  
"I'm going to rip her open," his voice is a growl, his eyes narrowed on the cat-o-nine-tails which is lifted again in frustration, impatience, agitation. The sparkling reflection of blood against gleaming wire in the half light all but drive his imagination into frenzy. A sickening crash of steel against stone, the whip cast down as a warning, a signal, an effort to urge him forward. Assimo can feel his question lingering playfully on his tongue, the excitement building, the goal he's fought so hard for seeming closer than ever. A break, a start, a beginning. Her downfall has begun- their rise to seclusive glory apparently imminent.  
"Continue!" He presses, the whip comes down again, clashing painfully against Cicero's arm. The shredded flesh leaves a fresh splatter of blood along the bench, the wire tendrils dripping. The scream rebounds off the walls and turns quickly into raucous laughter, reverberating off the bricks and seeming to surround them both. Assimo's confusion does nothing to overshadow the obvious thrill that enraptures him at the sound of maniacal cackling. __Cicero's eyes are wide and his howling laughter breaks swiftly into a detailed chorus of debauchery. His back arcs and his limbs strain against rusted shackles, the skin rubbed raw and bleeding- chaffed- scuffed- bruised._

* * *

Days. Days. Days. The familiar smell of wood rot and dirt becoming overwhelming in its blatancy to drive me crazy. I can see the crumbling wall and ceiling let slip a few stay beams of light, the floating dust coerced into dance on the lightest of air flows as time drags slowly, the deafening silence beating down on my ringing ear drums. The empty room, musty and littered with small notebooks reminds me greatly of my family back in Cryodiil. I can do little but think of them as of late what with my new one becoming rather distanced and-... _intolerant_ of anything I do or say. The only person who still thinks fondly of me is of course, Cicero. Astrid shoots me down or ignores me entirely, speaking louder, rougher. I don't feel like this is home anymore if I am being entirely honest with myself. It hurts to admit but I don't think I'm ever going to find what I might have been originally searching for the day I stepped out from my old crypt. I don't even know what I expected. I don't know what I wanted. Perhaps I just _needed_ some kind of confirmation that I wasn't always so... _damned_. That there was something more to me than the beast people see me as.  
While I stare up into the decrepit roof of Cicero's room from his bed I realise I miss my friends in Cryodiil. I miss my crypt. I miss the thrill of not knowing what I was like before. I don't think I would have left had I known how incredibly awful the state of the Dark Brotherhood is. It's something unworthy of saving or redemption. It's just a cult of pathetic thugs not willing to let go.

Pathetic thugs. Judgmental thugs. Days. Days. Days. Cicero comes and goes, running meager errands for Babette to Falkreath and back again for fresh alchemy supplies. Babette and I seem to be the only ones willing to even talk to him right now. The thought tugs at me and has done since he got here weeks ago. Their immediate hatred... for why? This group of supposed outcasts are meant to be welcoming to the estranged, aren't they? And even Loreius. I can feel the uncomfortable warmth of anger stirring in my stomach.  
My thoughts run tandem into a hole from which I'm failing to crawl out of. Their assumptous behavior reminds me of the people in Cyrodiil who ran screaming as soon as they looked at me. Albeit justified on most counts, as I did look rather terrifying by the time I managed to enthuse myself enough to leave the aching walls of my crypt.

I groan and slam my fist down beside me, a wave of dust rising off the thinning hay and I can see them swirling in the streams of light. The dull aching of hunger tugs at me and I stop breathing for a moment, a futile effort to quell my inevitable desire. The walls of the room, broken, the air fetid and the heavy ill-will presses down on me as I lay in silence waiting. Watching. Praying to any and every god that would listen to a waste of life such as me.

"Having a tantrum are we? My, my, sister, what's the trouble?" Astrid, pompous and brimming with obvious delight at my frustration. I don't bother to sit up but rather glare at her from Cicero's bed in silent rebellion. Astrid's smirk grows wider as she surveys the room.  
"Where's the fool?" She asks mockingly, raising her brow.  
"Out." I hardly have time for Astrid's games. I know she's working up to some kind of point or she wouldn't have come to bother me.  
"Now, now, Leivah is that anyway to treat a family member? Besides that, I have news I think you'll be glad to hear..." She looks at the ground and her smile recedes, intriguing my interest at last. "Look. Something is happening here. I'm not sure entirely what that something is, but... Well, we need to find out. If the Night Mother really did give you an order to talk to a contact, we'd be mad to ignore it. And I think we'd both agree, Cicero's brought quite enough madness to this Sanctuary. So go. Go to Volunruud. It's a crypt, pretty far to the northeast. Talk to this Amaund Motierre. And let's see where all this leads. Hmm?"  
I feel an odd sense of relief being granted permission to act on the Night Mother's order but the twinge of anger at something Astrid said grinds me the wrong way.  
"What makes you think he's mad? What makes any of you think he's mad?" I sit up now, ready to fight for a dying cause that means nothing to anyone but me.

She widens her eyes and stands silent, my off-topic question entirely catching her by surprise.  
"What a-?" She begins to defend and I cut her off, getting to my feet and taking a few small steps toward her.  
"Because he wears that outfit? Because of his voice or choice of speech? Being a jester- _being a fool_\- is not insanity, _sister. _But perhaps everyone's eagerness to assume the worst about someone else is." I walk past Astrid who stands dumbstruck by my outburst. I surprised myself but after days of festering upon the thought I suppose it needed to say something to ease my mind.

I walked onto the dorm balcony and made for the small table next to the bed I'd claimed to search it for my two contracts. Lurbuk. _Hern_.  
An interesting combination, I had to admit.  
I pocketed the small pieces of paper and got dressed into my armor. I took my small travelling knapsack from under my bed before making my way towards Babette's alchemy room, from which I could here a voice that raised my mood an astonishing amount. _He's home_.  
Although Cicero's trips to Falkreath never took all that long- a few hours at most- they always felt infinitely longer than that as I waited for him to come back. How oddly dependent I've grown. But considering he was the only company I'd every truly enjoyed, I guess that's only natural.

"... here's the rest of your coin, sister!" Cicero has his back to me when I enter and I can see Babette sheepishly hold out her hand with a polite grin. Her genuine attempts at being friendly toward him meant more than I would ever dare to say to her. Or to him for that matter.  
Babette notices me and coughs slightly, and rather unnecessarily, to announce my arrival. Cicero says my name before turning lightly on one heel, his face lit up with a wide smile. I automatically am compelled to return his friendliness and we stare a moment too long, causing Babette to cough again. I blink and remember I was only here to ask Babette to tell Cicero I'll be back later. My reasons for lingering and taking up her valuable time were no longer. I apologized for interrupting and dragged Cicero out by the arm as he waved to her, giggling and trying not to trip over himself. I led the curious jester outside the sanctuary for fear of running into Astrid again- I didn't want her breathing down my neck all the time. I assume the time I've been spending with the person responsible for her concern regarding her hold of leadership was beginning to make her rather anxious. The thought makes me smile vivaciously. When I finally turn to face him he's no longer smiling at me but rather looks me over apprehensively, as if trying to search me for what I might have dragged him out here for. I decide it's best to cut to the chase.  
"I have important news!" I can barely hide my excitement; I am certain this will make him happy. He doesn't speak but rather raises a sharp eyebrow, ready and waiting. "I've been permitted to go to Valunruud for the Night Mother's contract!" The statement hangs and his reaction is lacking.  
"Permitted?" He finally speaks and it hits me like an arrow to the chest. Ah. I stand properly upright, suddenly feeling defensive. I wanted to go so badly but. If I don't obey Astrid what use am I to her? If I am of no use then-... I have no reason to remain at the Sanctuary. Or remain breathing for that matter. Perhaps, when it came down to it my soul reason for complacency was to have a place to live. A place I knew Cicero would be.

I shrug, holding eye contact, deciding it's probably best to keep my mouth shut for the most part.  
"It's easier to obey." A half truth. My voice sounds quite disheartened, showing immediately his influence on my emotions. Stupid. But oddly effective.  
"Cicero is glad you can full-fill our matron's wishes, Listener," his voice is higher and his shoulders more relaxed. I guess its safe to say we both have a pretty strong effect on the other, at least enough to make him drop a subject so near and dear to his heart. "But when would you be leaving, sister?" His head tilts and as always I subconsciously note the slight swing of the tips of his cap.  
"I have jobs to do for Nazir before I'm I'm allowed to go to Volunruud. I'm going to be going now actually. Half Moon Mill and then to Morthal. I might have to come back here before proceeding to Volunruud though, I'm not yet sure." I stop myself, realizing I'm beginning to ramble. In my excitement I'd forgotten that more contracts meant less Cicero. How dull. My eagerness to leave evaporates and I wish only to stay, my new-found need for companionship sated only by this most unpredictable of characters. I'm lost in thought and forget even where I am, Cicero left standing, watching, reading. I distantly am aware that I'm standing with my arms folded, a frown on my face as I stare blankly at the leaf littered and worn path beside the black pond. Perhaps the news only made me happy because I thought it would please Cicero? I don't even know anymore. My dependency is now starting to frighten me. I can feel my pulse rise, worry replacing the look of sheer dejection I had across my features and I guess this alteration queued a reaction.  
"Listener?" His voice draws me out and I find that I'm swaying slightly, dizzy and short of breath. I need to gain more control over myself but something seems to have me so fragile these days. Was it Cicero? No. No certainly not. But perhaps his influence on me was something new, something that continues to unravel all that I thought I knew about myself.

And I fear that will never stop terrifying me.


	13. Chapter 13

The underbrush cracks and snaps beneath my ill-placed footsteps, my lack of care allowing anything and everything hear me coming a mile away. I left my horse back at Falkreath stables, deciding to come home again after only Hern's contract had been completed.  
The sun was setting and I knew the mill was not far now despite my mind being very far away, lingering on my last few moments with Cicero before I left unexpectedly mid conversation. How rude of me. Rudeness was not an uncommon personality trait for me to express generally speaking but this time I regret to say it was not intended. I'm not sure how or why I let my mind go so far so quickly, and while under Cicero's scrutiny no less. Unbearably embarrassing.  
I still felt sick and unfocused, contemplating never returning home at all for fear of seeing Cicero again and needing to explain what I was really thinking during my internalized episode. I wish I could articulate what kept me from being more open or forthwith. Perhaps 10 years underground with only equally reclusive folk for company is enough to make anyone a little a crazy. A little withdrawn.

The orange glow of the setting sun had retreated across the sky, leaving a pale lilac behind that stretched all the way across the clouded heavens. I peered up through the autumn leaved canopy, wistfully thinking on times long gone, my fond memories with Dalina.  
The sound of a flowing river brought me back to my senses and I finally saw a break in the trees. The logging house loomed through the thicket and I could see two figures in the half light. Hern and Hert are standing, talking animatedly just outside their house and I watch from the shadows at the edge of the tree line. I can see they hold a dagger each, but any other form of defense is unnoticeable from here.

I breathe deeply and step out, waving to get their attention. Hern sees me and reflex forces his hand to unsheathe his meager weapon, Hert quickly follows his lead.  
"Hern! It's me!" I shout, cupping my hands around my grinning mouth. I feel physical pain in my chest knowing what I must do.  
"_Leivah_?" Shock, confusion and then warmth. "Leivah I don't believe it!" My fellow kin return their weapons to their belts and approach me with wide smiles. Its been so long since I'd seen them last. 2 years at least.  
Hern embraces me roughly, laughing as he does so, after which Hert gives me a soft kiss on the cheek and a warm smile. I feel like throwing up. Why did I come here. Why did I accept this mission. Why in Oblivion did I agree to come all the way here on the premise of killing my once family members. My emotions fail to pierce through my facade and the two try to usher me inside their home, eager to talk to me and catch up but I politely decline.  
"I'm just passing through this time, sadly. I'm on my way up to Whiterun." A lie. "I was told you two ran this mill from a bar keep in Falkreath!" A lie.  
Hert smiles at Hern and she grasps his forearm fondly. My gut twists with guilt and I find it hard to breathe. What should I do? Perhaps I should just stay and live with them? No... no. We wouldn't survive long with the Brotherhood on all of our tails. And besides, I have new interests to protect now. A new family, albeit a divided one as of late.  
"Yeah well 2 years ago we moved up here hoping to find a more pleasant way to live- as you know- and running a mill sounded as good an opportunity as any so we pounced. Dalina sent us a letter a while back saying you had come up here but we doubted we'd run into you!" While Hern speaks I note how Hert looks so lovely, grinning more than I'd ever seen her in all the 8 years I knew her in Cyrodiil. I felt truly tainted, my mind swimming with vivid thoughts of them laying dead, defiled at my feet by my own filthy hands.  
"I'm glad I found you, and I promise to come back but I really must be heading off, the Jarl is expecting me." I smile sheepishly, rubbing the back of my neck. Oh I'll be back alright.  
"Oh- the Jarl! How interesting!" Hert almost gushes, gripping Hern's arm excitedly while he remains dejected at the mention of my sudden departure. The change in her since I last knew her is so surprising. She was always so withdrawn and tired looking, even more than I ever have been. Seeing her like this just sprinkles my guilt with a healthy helping of self loathing. I can see they're waiting for a response and I can hardly bring myself to speak any longer. I hadn't really thought about this encounter at all. When I saw Hern's name on the contract while sitting at the table opposite Nazir I knew I wouldn't have much choice. I knew I couldn't say no what with things already on the ice for me there. I feared that showing even the slightest weakness could result in any number of potential misgivings. By joining the Brotherhood I had unwittingly agreed to sacrifice my right to choose. I shudder and concern graces Hert's face. She goes to speak but I cut her off with shallow reassurance.  
"I'm just tired from travelling so much. I'll rest when I get to Whiterun, I have a house there." More lies. I won't be returning to Whiterun for quite a while.  
"Well, if you're sure... Just be careful okay? It's not safe to travel alone in these parts..." She trails off and looks rather forlorn, now resembling the reserved vampire I once knew in Cryodiil when her eyes dart up to meet Hern's. I can see they're speaking without saying anything and I am suddenly aware they know something out here is after them. Someone. Me.

Bile boils and climbs up my throat so I usher my farewells before darting North and away from perhaps the only real friends I have in all of Skyrim. Once out of sight I can't hold it anymore and I throw up, dizzy and beginning to really panic now. I stumble for a few more meters before coming to sit down in a heap on the forest floor, cold and shaking, unable to control my thoughts.  
Am I really going to kill people I've known and thought fondly of for years for a cause I don't even believe in? Am I really going to simply obey Astrid to such an extent? I hardly know if I'm doing it for her or myself anymore. Perhaps it was to have a place to live? To have company? To have some form of structure in my otherwise chaotic life? These questions plague me and before I know it, it's long past late when I finally manage to collect myself. I've made promise after promise to myself that I'll keep this under control but it seems these frantic whims are becoming a new and unpleasant way of life. I get to my feet and realise it's freezing, a subtle wind beginning to weave through the brittle trees. I can't help but feel incredibly exposed suddenly, the feeling of being watched entirely too invasive. I shrug off the feeling, convinced no one would bother to sit watching a dreary Bosmer woman leaning against a tree for several hours. My heart rate is low and my mind is finally clearing, I step with caution through the fauna until I'm running, crouched and concentrated. Finally I've made my decision.

* * *

_It's not easy coming to the conclusion that you can no longer allow yourself the freedom to live. And it was no less easy for Leivah when she herself realised the Brotherhood couldn't allow even someone as insignificant as her to remain breathing. It'd been weeks since she'd seen Cicero despite having remained in the almost immediate area, waiting for his eventual release. Her plan could not take form without seeing him one last time and things were beginning to look quite bleak. As if they weren't already bleak enough. With things so uncertain, with the knowledge that Cicero was not free until she was removed from the picture indefinitely, she knew it was time for drastic measures. It was time for a plan, for action. And that action was to mislead and abandon him, unsure of what- if any- consequences she could be throwing onto him.  
She had to plant the seed of thought that perhaps, she didn't want to live any longer. She had to disappear._

_Waves of negative thoughts were starting to assault her as the days dragged on, stricken with worry. __That is, until the 53rd day when she heard footsteps approach her camp. A man in shrouded armor emerged, most his face covered, his eyes narrowed. Something seemed off.  
__"Cicero?" She stands, cautious but daring to remain optimistic as he remains quite still on the edge of the clearing._

_In the days that had passed her name had become empty syllables, a face lost to his clouded memory. He had retained nothing of her appearance but dizzied, scattered memories their time together started to recollect themselves when he saw the young Bosmeri woman eyeing him wearily. Her curious eyes looked him up and down, searching for something- anything- familiar about him. It was definitely Cicero but even now she could see it wasn't '_her'_ Cicero standing just 5 meters away.  
"Are you alright?" She speaks slowly, taking one single, small step forward. He doesn't move but continues to icily stare her down. The concern in her eyes both confuses and intrigues him; he's never quite understood why she of all people could ever see him beyond his programmed intent._

_"Leivah..." He says her name slowly as if it's in a foreign language, a steady hand rising for his cowl. He pulls at the fabric and reveals his face; tired, haunted. Leivah resists the overwhelming urge to approach him. There's something about his tension that reminds her of their first few encounters, before things became personal.  
They never intended for it to happen that way; both resentful rivals clashing together time and again, each word shared untying the bitter knots they held within themselves. But here he is again, washed clean of meaning, wiped of feeling. She knows what she had feared is now a very painful reality. Assimo had broken him.  
"He did this, didn't he?" Leivah speaks with controlled fury. She knows. She knows. She knows. Her hand twitches next to her dagger, freshly sharpened; she will defend herself if she must.  
"Listen to me." He speaks suddenly, his words spat with obvious force, very deliberate and with great urgency. Leivah does little to hide her surprise, her fingers lacing the edge of her hilt, waiting. Waiting. Waiting.  
"I am giving you this one, single opportunity to run. For all the times you let me go. Take this chance and go." With an air of finality he turns to leave, beginning to shake in a fierce effort to fight himself from hurting the only person he's ever considered a friend.  
"I won't, you know!" She calls after him and he stops moving, standing silent again. "You know I won't leave you like this. I know you're better th-!"  
"Better? Better than what!" He rounds on her and she backs away, her dagger drawn as he bares down on where she stands, suddenly rendered speechless.  
"Everything wrong that has happened has been because of _you_! All because of you, _girl_." His emphasis strikes harder than any real blow he could have landed. He hasn't talked to her like that in years. "If I had just killed you back then- none, none of this would have happened! This is all your fault!" He slams his palms roughly into her shoulders and she does nothing to stop him, instead falling backwards and into the dirt. His statements burn more than any destruction spell, and mostly because she knows them to be true. Background thoughts of self blame, self loathing, self disgust come flooding into view and she realises she's always felt as he says. It really is all her fault. She's always known that._

_Cicero can see shes near tears and it makes him angrier, more at himself than anything. She needs to leave, he doesn't _want_ to hurt her. He _needs_ to hurt her. His gut is twisting and the idea- the hope- of any satisfaction he'd dreamed of achieving here today is long gone. In that damned dungeon he'd come to know her name as something to hate, as something that was little more than an obstacle to overcome. But here, seeing her scared and apparently defenseless on the ground, hurt by his words, his actions- by him. He felt guilt; his first real, clear emotion in weeks. Leivah covers her face, her dagger in the dirt. She didn't even try to defend herself; a fully capable and merciless vagrant. An accomplished mage and, above all, his _equal_. She did not so much as think to defend herself from an obvious threat. Because that threat was him.  
Cicero reaches a decision and he knows he's being monitored. He knows there's an assassin waiting in the wings to assess his actions, his willingness, his _obedience_. But he cares little of the consequences in this moment, seeing the only person who has ever loved him suffer to such an extreme. The only person he'd ever loved. It was time for one last, and final encounter. A truth he'd never planned to tell her, never wanted to. But it was all he knew that could keep her safe and far enough away that she might even have a chance to live, to grow, to thrive somewhere new and without him. Against every fiber in his being screaming refusal, he speaks with a sneer, a twisted grimace to hide his own anguish. _

_"You want to know something? You want to know why Tairah had a contract on his head? It was _you_. One of your filthy kin called that contract out on him to teach you a lesson." Tears now welled in her eyes and Cicero felt little more than disgust. Whether for himself, or for her, he knew not.  
__"Me? But-" she stammers before falling silent, several tears beginning to make neat, parallel lines down her cheeks as a whole new brand of confusion sweeps her away.  
__"Why? Little brat said something about being cast aside-... 'replaced' was his choice of words." Cicero scoffs, folding his arms as he looms over Leivah. His breath catches in his chest and he can hardly breathe._

_Leivah wasn't in the clan for very long but she remembered one young vampire that used to admire Tairah greatly. Perry... Could it have been him? Had his silent jealousy festered enough to outweigh his adoration for Tairah? It couldn't be true. It couldn't be her fault. She couldn't bare to have another trophy added to her growing list of failures. When she doesn't speak, he decides to finally seal his deal with one last blow.  
"Just get out of here, elf. Run off back to your blood sucking family."  
"_**You** were suppose to be my family_!" She chokes, frustratedly wiping tears with her fingers, knowing it was too late to keep from looking pathetic. Too late for much of anything.  
"So sorry to disappoint but you're going to have to live without me from now on." His lungs are caving, his ribs are rattling, his eyes are blurring and he can feel the sweet sting of tears beginning to swell.  
"I don't even want to breathe without you! You're all I have!" Leivah screams and her voice streaks right though him. She knows it has been done, finally. She's planted the thought of desire in his mind. The craving for self-destruction._

_An impasse. Both having completed their own hidden and very separate goals. Cicero's to rid himself of temptation. To keep her safe. Leivah's goal, however was rather different. To fake one's own death, to erase yourself was no easy chore. No easy lie kept secret. Especially when that lie was for someone who knew you better than you know yourself. Who knew you wouldn't just die, or disappear. But perhaps if you told them so, in believable circumstances, it could come to pass. It could be believed. The idea, the creation of deceit could grow, thrive, survive in a mind that otherwise would have dismissed it if not for one single, suggestive, sentence._

_He doesn't speak but rather stands silent, stunned, brows knitting together in concern. A thought he had never considered.  
When he doesn't speak, she realises she doesn't want him to. It could ruin all she's worked for today. Her lie could come undone, even if partially true.  
__"Get out of here." She whispers quietly, clenching her fists tightly so that her nails begin to dig painfully into her palms. Cicero steps back as she begins to shake, the tears now flowing as she glares up at him with a fierce and silent accusation. "I said get _lost_!" Before he knows what's happening she is on her feet, a vicious whirlwind engulfing him as she throws the strongest frost spell she can muster. The wind stops swirling to reveal a jagged, crystalline wave of ice sitting motionless, yet alarmingly close to impaling him at several points on his body. He clambers backward, alarmed and fighting to force his lungs into action before falling over, scrambling in the dirt to get away from Leivah who is stalking him down, her eyes wild and her hands moving erratically. Another spell is in the making.  
__With great effort he struggles back to his feet, his body coated thickly in dust now, his eyes watering as he searches for an easy entrance back into the woods. He hears the crashing wind of ice forming from straining fingertips, shards of ice now flying past him at alarming speeds. Shots of jagged glass race past him within terrifying proximity and smash against tree trunks.  
Running now, though he can barely see for the pain pressing in his chest, the raging throb of furious heartbeats consuming his concentration, his sight, his muscle function. The ice shards hit more trees, rocks, the ground beneath his feet and he can hear her. He can hear her screaming, the force of her attacks rising to new heights as she rips the skin from inside her throat with her own raw voice. She pushes him onward, her fury enough to blind him to the injuries the scrubs are inflicting as he races through the underbrush. His face is cut, bleeding- a busted boot lost to the protruding roots of a grand old tree half dead and rotting.  
The thundering of his own footsteps blend in with his frantic heart rate, branches whipping past him and tearing the buckles on his armor one by one until he realizes the chase is off. But what of his companion from the Brotherhood?  
Behind him some 60 meters he can hear distant magic cease and be replaced with the ringing and repeated clash of metal.  
"_Gods no..._" he whispers, unconscious to his own voice as his body takes control and begins storming back in the direction he'd just come, ignoring sense, ignoring instinct, ignoring orders. Desperate grunts creep forth through the leaf litter and replace the pounding fear that had sunk its jaws into Cicero's mind. She may be accomplished, she may be a truly gifted swordsman, but that didn't matter. She was in no condition to fight and he had no one to blame but himself. _

_He comes to a stop as the grunts turn into screams, his mind a flurry of panic. His foot is burning from the minor lacerations, small sticks impaled into his exposed flesh. He pays these injuries no mind as he passes a group of clustered ferns and sees Leivah crouched over the body of his brother. She had won.  
__Relief, hope. His sudden burst of joy was short lived when he saw her shaking, still stricken and irreversibly miserable. He'd gone too far this time and perhaps, just maybe, it really was the last time he'd ever get to see her.  
__The urge to destroy was deafening, his gut instinct shrieking incessantly for him to go for it, to take her down and please his Master. All of this and he still stood silent, watching; thrilled by her vulnerability yet terrified by it. She collapses next to the corpse, curling into herself as her sobs become screams again, random and ear splitting. She lifts her head and brings it down against the rough ground with a sharp 'thud', and Cicero turns away, unable to watch any longer. He retreats back home, fearless of the consequences right until he's outside the entrance, knowing that only a fresh Oblivion could be awaiting his arrival._

* * *

The moons we're hidden behind thick, angry clouds, the distant roar of thunder promising a long and cold journey home. The faint glow of candle-light had faded hours ago within the cottage and I knew it was now or never. I picked the lock on Hern and Hert's front door and swung it open in flawless silence, crouched and ready for any kind of surprise. But instead I find the two of them sleep, their hands intertwined above the covers, mild smiles on their faces as they breathed in comfortable unison. I step up to the end of the bed and watch them with fierce curiosity. I feel-... I don't know what I'm feeling. Perhaps envy? Definitely guilt- but mostly envy occupies my mind here in this moment. I wonder what that's like... having someone in this way. Having them so close to you and not feel anything but fear and the urgency of self preservation. All I know how to do it seems is kill people when they get too close. Which says a lot considering most of them have been strangers. But not these two charming individuals. No, not Hern and Hert.  
I draw Dragonbane, careful to be silent, and step around the right side of the bed. I raise my sword above my head and close my eyes for just a moment, listening to them inhale one final time.

And it has been done. In one swift swing I brought down my blade across their necks as they slept unknowingly. There's no time for guilt There's no time for pleasure. There's only a quiet dripping. The steady sound of falling liquid, down through the thin mattress and finally onto the floor, pooling in a rotted mass of long stagnated blood. I leave through the door and begin my trek home South, towards the storm that's beginning to cause the wind to pick up. I feel incredibly cold, the thick leather armor doing little for my cheeks against the first few needle-pointed stings of rain. I curse under my breath and bring my arms around myself in an effort to keep my center warm.

xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

The wind has started howling now, the rain falling without rest and the thunder seeming to quake the ground. I think bitterly upon the weather's ironic reflection of my mood. The trees move in ghostly, violent unison, whipped back and forth in the directionless assault of water and wind. I am soaking and can't help but feel that now, more than ever before, I am being stalked. But by whom? For why? I keep my paranoia repressed but my mind alert, the faint glow of a resilient Falkreath now visible through the splitting trees and I thank any and all devines that may be listening.

Finally I find the road and follow it towards my home, shaking and swearing. No magic spell could help warm me right now. I stray from the road and down to the entrance to the Sanctuary, eager to be rid of this frightful weather. A strike of lightening dances across the sky and I squint in mild shock, the brightness painful to my eyes just as the following chorus of thunder to my ears. I cover the sides of my head in frustration before I come to the door, yelling as loudly as I can the Sanctuary's pass-phrase. The door swings wide and I stumble inside, freezing and sopping wet. I pass through the war room and am surprised to find Astrid still awake. Before I can even ask her she barks a harsh round of laughter in my direction and I return it with a mild sneer. She really gets under my skin.  
I find the main room empty, my brothers and sisters asleep. I make my way to the sleeping chambers room and take fresh robes from my draw and get dressed, my hair still dripping water when I am done. I hang my armor out near the forge in the main hall, spreading it out carefully so the leather won't become mangled and out of shape. I'm tempted to stay near the forge where it's definitely the warmest spot in the whole burrow but instead I decide to head upstairs again, suddenly needing someone to talk to. I decide for the moment that Cicero isn't an option for two reasons; firstly, if he's asleep I do not want to wake him and secondly, I left him confused and concerned before departing yet again. My selfishness knows no bounds it would seem.  
Eventually I find much needed refuge in the chapel, the Night Mother's presence somehow comforting while I seek after something unattainable for someone like me after what I have done throughout my lifetime. What I did today.  
Today's task was nothing to be taken lightly. It was betrayal - plain and simple. I betrayed people who trusted me and whom I trusted. At least, to some extent. More so than I could say of anyone here. I can't even trust myself right now.

I find myself sitting on the floor before the Unholy Matron, whispering in a quiet but frantic tone all my thoughts, all my troubles. Before I'm sure of what's happening I am crying into my own palms, exhausted and ashamed.  
"Oh, Mother. What would Dalina think of me now?" I choke back a sob, unable to give my question much thought. I see a hundred faces before me now, victim after victim. Each life I've taken, each person I've desecrated. They all had families and friends and people they loved and people that loved them right until the moment someone as insignificant as myself stepped in and ended it.  
I've never been one for a guilty conscious. Not ever. Not until today. Not until Hern and Hert.  
When my mind walks too far I feel the surprising but welcomed warmth of my Mother. Our Mother. I can sense her inside the chained up coffin, the fierce but pleasant scent of deathbell and nightshade intensifies and I am overwhelmed by a sudden sense of calm. Of clarity.

Nothing can be done now. Everything will be fine. It's time to move on. To let go.  
My thoughts are rearranged and I have every belief the Night Mother is directly responsible. I properly take my hands away from my face, my hair still damp and I look at the beautiful engravings on her tomb. I lift a hand and run them over the markings thoughtfully, carefully. I lean forward and place my forehead against the cool surface, my eyes shut tightly, my expression blank.  
"Thank you, Mother." I whisper gently, the crushing sense of guilt washed clean away and I stand up, unsure of what to do now.  
I wait quietly, almost expecting fear and uncertainty to return as soon as I leave the chapel. Instead, when I finally force myself to leave I find the sensation of peace remains and I am infinitely grateful for her gift. I stand in the outer room and look towards the path leading to my room, and then the one leading to Cicero's. I can hear no sound escaping the decrepit room but choose to head towards the jester's chambers regardless, only to find him indeed asleep. He looks weak, vulnerable- no trace of any humor or joy but rather a depressive absence of anything at all. Blank. Exhausted and blank. I smile knowingly, unfathomably glad that he's finally getting some rest.  
On his table I can see a small stack of tightly bound leather-back books, brown and tattered. I've noted him writing- scribbling- in those a few times now... I wonder what they are.  
My eyes drift back to my fatigued fool and I decide to ignore the books. They're none of my business. Instead I choose to approach his bed and sink down onto it, careful not to wake him as I sneakily wrap myself in his arms, warm and content. My mind is empty of troubling thoughts for the first time in a very long time and I silently, gratefully pray my eternal thanks to our dearest Mother for this moment of serenity.


End file.
